Oh, Venerable Priapos! wooden god that I had fastened in the marble border of my bath, it is not wrongly, guardian of the orchards, that you keep watch here o'er the courtesans.
God, we did not buy you to sacrifice to you our maidenhood. Naught can return that which no longer is, and the zealots of Pallas do not run the streets of Amathus.
No. Formerly you watched over the tresses of the trees, the blooms well-watered, the heavy, tasteful fruits. That is why we have chosen you.
Preserve today our blond heads, the open poppies of our lips and the violets of our eyes. Preserve the solid fruits of our breasts and give us lovers who resemble you. 141