Askedst my grief, wherefore I so had called thee
From the bright portal?
What my wild soul languished for, frenzy-stricken?
'Who thy love now is it that ill requiteth,
Sappho? and who thee and thy tender yearning
Wrongfully slighteth?
Though he now fly, quickly he shall pursue thee—
Scorns he thy gifts? Soon he shall freely offer—
Loves he not? Soon, even wert thou unwilling,
Love shall he proffer.'