I rub my eyes . . it is already day, I think. Ah! who is by my side? . . . a woman? . . . By Paphia, 69 I had forgotten! . . . Oh, Charites! how hot with shame I am!
To what country have I come, what isle is this, where love is comprehended in this fashion? If I were not so tired, I should think I had been dreaming . . . Can it be that this is Psappha?
She sleeps . . . She certainly is beautiful, although her hair is cut in virile fashion. But this strange face, this mannish bosom and these narrow hips. . .
I had best leave before she wakens. Alas! I am lying by the wall. I must step over her. I am afraid to brush against her hip, afraid that she might try to hold me back.