Classic Poem

Poor Ibycus his wife,
At length, methinks, 'tis time
To quit your wicked life,
And each flagitious crime:
You should the better, sure, behave,
Now you are verging on the grave.
Sure now you should desist,
Amidst the brilliant stars,
To spread a gloomy mist:
For decency debars
That 'mongst the maidens you should play,
Like Pholoe the young and gay.
Your daughter, with less shame,
May rouse up our young rakes,
While Bacchanalian dame
Her timbrel she awakes;
The love of Nothus makes her brisk,
Like goat upon the hill to frisk.
The fair Lucerian fleece
Not rosy wreathes to twine,
Nor harps are of a piece
With such an age as thine;
Nor should an antiquated hag
E'er boast of an exhausted cag.