The loved one’s breasts by singers are extolled,
Who liken lumps of flesh to cups of gold:
Her sickly face they to the moon compare:
Her teeth—mere bits of bone—to jewels rare:
Her arms to slender lotus stems, her lips—
Poor reddened flesh—to the bow that Cupid grips:
To tapering plaintain stem, the smooth round thigh,
That like all other flesh is doomed to die.
Lies! Lies! of men who poet’s name abuse,
Yet dare to boast the favour of the Muse.