There’s a lie on thy cheek in its roses,
A lie echo’d back by thy glass.
Thy necklace on greenhorns imposes,
And the ring on thy finger is brass.
Yet thy tongue, I affirm, without giving an inch back,
Outdoes the sham jewels, rouge, mirror, and pinchbeck.
Mentitur veros facies tibi picta colores,
Et speculi mendax te tibi imago referit.
In digito annellus mentitur aëneus aurum,
Mentitur gemmam vitrea gemma probam.
Quicquid contigerit re cum mendacia discat,
Miremur linguam dicere falsa tuam?
Et speculi mendax te tibi imago referit.
In digito annellus mentitur aëneus aurum,
Mentitur gemmam vitrea gemma probam.
Quicquid contigerit re cum mendacia discat,
Miremur linguam dicere falsa tuam?