A Passage from Petronius, Translated

Fallen are thy locks! for woeful winter hoar Has stolen thy bloom, and beauty is no more! Thy temples mourn their shady honours shorn, Parch'd like the fallow destitute of corn. Fallacious gods! whose blessings thus betray; What first ye give us, first ye take away. Thou, late exulting in thy golden hair, As bright as Phoebus, or as Cynthia fair, Now view'st, alas! thy forehead smooth and plain As the round fungus, daughter of the rain; Smooth as the surface of well-polish'd brass, And fly'st with fear each laughter-loving lass: Death hastes amain—thy wretched fate deplore— Fallen are thy locks, and beauty is no more.