Shall parch and bleach thy fresh complexion. Thou,
When motley-mantled Night[f7] hath hid the day,
Shalt greet the darkness, with how short a joy!
For the morn’s sun the nightly dew shall scatter,
And thou be pierced again with the same pricks
Of endless woe—and saviour shall be none.[n5]
Such fruits thy forward love to men hath wrought thee.
Thyself a god, the wrath of gods to thee
Seemed little, and to men thou didst dispense
Forbidden gifts. For this thou shalt keep watch