To Ibycus’s Wife

SPOUSE of penniless Ibycus,
Thus late, bring to a close all thy delinquencies,
All thy studious infamy:—
Nearing swiftly the grave—(that not an early one)—
Cease girls’ sport to participate,
Blurring stars which were else cloudlessly brilliant.
What suits her who is beautiful
Suits not equally thee: rightly devastates
Thy fair daughter the homes of men,
Wild as Thyad, who wakes stirred by the kettle-drums.
Nothus’ beauty constraining her,
Like some kid at his play, holds she her revelry:
Thy years stately Luceria’s
Wools more fitly become—not din of harpsichords,
Not pink-petallèd roseblossoms,
Not casks drained by an old lip to the sediment.