Horace Ode 4.13

The gods heard my prayers, Lyce, the gods
heard, Lyce: you have become an old woman; and yet
you wish to seem beautiful
and an impudent drunk, with games and drinks

and a tremulous song you bother
reluctant Cupid: he stands watch now
upon the beautiful cheeks of Chia,
who is blooming and learned in the lyre.

For ruthless he flies over the whithered
former beauties and he flees you, because your yellow
teeth, and your wrinkles
and your snowy head make you ugly.

Nor do purple Chian silks, nor precious stones,
bring back to you the times which once and for all,
buried with the public records,
the winged day enclosed.

Where does desire flee, alas, and where your color? Where
your seemly movement? What you have of her - of that woman -
who used to breathe love,
who used to snatch me away from my wits,

who was loved most after Cinera, and whose face
was famed for pretty arts? But the fates have given
brief years to Cinera,
while they are about to preserve Lyce,

equal in years to the old crow,
so that the fervid youths may be able to see her,
not without much laughter -
a torch fallen in embers.