Pyrrha, what slender youngster, soaked with perfume, holds you in his arms, lying on a heap of roses in a delightful grotto? For whom are you tying up your flaxen hair, so simple, so elegant? Too bad for him: many a time will he weep at your fickle loyalty and his change of luck, gazing in naive astonishment at the sea whipped up by dark winds. Now the trusting lad enjoys your golden charms, hoping you will always be available, always affectionate–unaware, as he is, of the breeze’s treachery. Think of the poor wretches, fascinated by your shimmer, with no experience of what you are like! As for me, a votive tablet on his temple wall records that I have dedicated my drenched clothes to the deity who rules the sea.