Horace I, 5

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,
With smiles for diet,
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,
On the quiet?
For whom do you bind up your tresses,
As spun-gold yellow--
Meshes that go with your caresses,
To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious,
And curse you duly;
Yet now he deems your wiles delicious--
You perfect truly!
Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean--
He'll soon fall in there!
Then shall I gloat on his commotion,
For I have been there!