ABSTRACT
Descend from heaven, Mars, if you know the way, To see Sulpicia decked out for your day! Take care; you'd blush (though Venus well might smile) If in your awe you let your weapons fall. From her eyes, when he's in the mood to scorch Immortals, Love lights up his double torch. No matter where she goes, do what she will, Some Grace discreetly makes it beautiful. Her hair looks lovely when it's flowing free, But a coiffure becomes her equally. In Tyrian purple she sets hearts aflame, In pure white the effect is just the same. Thus does Vertumnus on Olympus wear A thousand costumes, and each one is fair. She is the only girl who ought to boast Purple-dyed woolens-never mind the cost! All that the rich Arabian from his field Of fragrance reaps by rights should be her yield; The Indian by the waters of the dawn Who gathers gems should give her every one. Sing of her, Muses, at this festival; Apollo, pluck your glorious tortoise shell. This ritual will be hers for years to come; No girl is more deserving of your hymn.
