In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,
Thou wert not cradled, wert not born;
She who has not a fault beside,
Should ne'er be signalised for scorn;
Else tremble at the fate forlorn
Of Anaxarete, who spurned
The weeping Iphis from her gate;
Who, scoffing long, relenting late,
Was to a statue turned.