De Sulpicia by "Tibullus" (Tib 3.8)

Sulpicia est tibi culta tuis, Mars magne, kalendis;
    spectatum e caelo, si sapis, ipse ueni;
hoc Venus ignoscet; at tu, uiolente, caueto
    ne tibi miranti turpiter arma cadant:
illius ex oculis, cum uult exurere diuos,               5
    accendit geminas lampadas acer Amor.
Illam, quidquid agit, quoquo uestigia mouit,
    componit furtim subsequiturque Decor;
seu soluit crines, fusis decet esse capillis:
    seu composit, comptis est ueneranda comis.               10
Vrit, seu Tyria uoluit procedere palla:
    urit, seu niuea candida ueste uenit.
Talis in aeterno felix Vertumnus Olympo
    mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet.
Sola puellarum digna est cui mollia caris               15
    uellera det sucis bis madefacta Tyros,
possideatque, metit quidquid bene olentibus aruis
    cultor odoratae diues Arabs segetis,
et quascumque niger rubro de litore gemmas
    proximus Eois colligit Indus aquis.               20
Hanc uos, Pierides, festis cantate kalendis,
    et testudinea Phoebe superbe lyra.
Hoc sollemne sacrum multos haec sumet in annos:
    dignior est uestro nulla puella choro.

Great Mars, Sulpicia is dressed up in your honor on your days;
in order to watch from heaven, if you understand, I myself came in person;
Venus will forgive this; but you, violent one, beware
lest your weapons fail you, shameful, looking on in wonder:
From her eyes, when Amor wishes to inflame passion in the gods,
piercing Amor lights up twin torches.
She, whatever she does, wherever she moves her steps,
Beauty secretly adorns and follows behind;
if she loosens her hair, it is becoming for her to be with disheveled hair:
if she arranges it, she ought to be admired for her arranged locks.
Men burn, if she proceeds by in a cloak of Tyrian purple:
Men burn, if she comes dressed in a tunic snowy white.
Just as Vertumnus, happy in the eternal Olympus
has a thousand outfits, and wears them all handsomely.
She alone of all girls is worthy to have Tyro give to her
soft fleeces made from double dyes and the combs,
and that she might take hold, he reaps whatsoever in his fragrant fields
the rich Arabian planter of frangrant grains,
and the black Indus river collects jewels from the red shore
next to the Arabian waters.
Of her you, Muses, must sing on the festival days,
and you, arrogant Phoebus, with a tortoiseshell lyre.
This in many years begin the sacred rite:
no girl is more worthy of your musical praise.