At a debauch given by two young men and some courtesans, at my home, where love flowed out like wine, Damalis, to celebrate her name, danced the Masque of Pasiphaë.
She had had two masks, a cow and a bull, made at Kition, one for herself, and one for Karmantides. She wore two terrible horns, and on her croup a long and hairy tail.
The other women, led by me, and holding flowers and torches, turned to each other's arms with anguished cries, and we caressed Damalis with our trailing hair.
Her sighs, our songs and the dancing of our loins lasted even longer than the night. The empty room is still damp and warm. I look at my reddened knees and the Kios wine-cups with roses swimming in them.