Odes 3.15 (Creech): Uxor Pauperis Ibyci

THou Wife of Ibycus the Poor,
Forbear, and toy in Love no more,
Confine thy Lust and end thy shame,
Nor strive to blaze with dying flame:
Now near to Death that comes but slow,
Now Thou art stepping down below:
Sport not amongst the Blooming Maids
But think on Ghosts, and empty Shades:
What suits with Pholoe in her bloom,
Gray Chloris will not Thee become,
A Bed is different from a Tomb:
Thy Daughter with a better Grace
Tho wrinkles plough her wither'd Face,
Might burn, and rage, break Young Men's doors,
And wast the Relicks of her hours;
Let Nothus Love force her to play
Like wanton Kids ith' heat of May;
Lucerian Wool with Purple stain'd
Not Harps become thy wither'd hand,
The Purple Rosy Crowns disgrace
The Earthy paleness of thy Face;
And Drink until the Hogshead's dry,
Then suck the dreggs, no blood will fly
To thy pale Cheek, nor softness to thy Eye.