Classic Poem

The gods have heard, Lyce, the gods my prayers
Have heard. Old age is on you, yet you think
To give yourself a beauty's airs,
Frisk unabashed, and drink,

And in your cups with quavering ditty seek
Cupid that heeds not. He to Chia hies,
Young, lutist trained: on her fair cheek
Ensconced at watch he lies.

For he ne'er breaks his flight on sere oak bough
To settle, but relentlessly has fled
From you deformed by wrinkled brow,
Black teeth, and snowcapt head.

No Coan purples now, nor lustre pure
Of costly jewels, will bring back the past,
Which once swift time in record sure
Of calendars holds fast.

Where are the charm, ah me! the tender hue,
The grace of movement, that were yours? What part
Of her whose breath was love have you,
Of her who stole my heart,

Queen Cinara's heir, a face for winsome play
Of features known? But fate that in her prime
Cut Cinara short, bade Lyce stay
Till she attained in time

To match the aged crow's long tale of years;
That lovers warm with youth around might flock
A torch to look on, and with jeers
A heap of ashes mock.