Wax-doll, dear plaything that she called her child, she has left you too and forgets you, like myself, who was with her your father or your mother, I forget.
The pressure of her lips has worn the paint from your little cheeks; and, on your left hand, here is the broken finger that made her cry so much. This little cyclas that you wear, 'twas, she who worked it for you.
According to her you could already read. However, you had not been weaned, and at night, leaning over you, she opened her tunic and gave you the breast, "so that you would not cry," she used to say.
Doll, if I should care to see her, I would give you to Aphrodite as the dearest of my gifts. But I want to think that she is wholly dead.