Horace, Book IV. Ode XIII

Lyce, the Gods have heard my prayer, Lyce the proud, the charming, and the fair, Lyce is old! though, wanton still and gay, You laugh, and sing, and play. Now beauty fails, with wine you'd raise desire, And with your trembling voice would fan our dying fire.

In vain! for Love long since forsook Thy snowy hair, thy falling teeth, and withering look; He Chia's blooming face Adorns with every grace, Her wit, her eyes, her every glance, are darts, That with resistless force invade our hearts.

Not all your art nor all your dress (Though grown to a ridiculous excess, Though you, by lovers' spoils made fine, In richest silks and jewels shine, And with their borrow'd light Surprize the dazzled sight) Can your fled youth recal, recal one day Which flying Time on his swift wings has borne away.

Ah! where are all thy beauties fled! Where all the charms that so adorn'd the tender maid! Ah! where the nameless graces that were seen In all thy motions and thy mien; What now, oh! what is of that Lyce left, By which I once was of my sense and of my soul bereft!

Of her, who with my Cynara strove, And shar'd my doubtful love! Yet fate, and the last unrelenting hour, Seiz'd her gay youth, and pluck'd the springing flower. But angry heaven has reserv'd thee, That you with rage might see, With rage might see your beauties fading glory fly, And your short youth and tyrannous power before you die.

That your insulting lovers might return Pride for your pride, and with retorted scorn Glut their revenge, and satiate all their pain; With cruel pleasure, and with sharp disdain, Might laugh, to see that fire, which once so burn'd, Shot such resistless flames, to ashes turn'd.