Odes 3.15 (Martin): Uxor Pauperis Ibyci

Quit, quit, 't is more than time, thou wife
Of Ibycus the pauper,
Thy horribly abandoned life,
And courses most improper!

Ripe for the grave, 'mongst girls no more
Attempt to sport thy paces,
Nor fling thy hideous shadow o'er
Their pure and starry graces.

What charmingly on Pholoe sits
In Chloris must repel us:
Thy daughter better it befits
To hunt up the young fellows.

Like Maenad, by the timbrel made
Of all restraint oblivious,
She by her love for Nothus sway'd
Like she-goat frisks lascivious.

To spin Luceria's fleeces suits
A crone like thee; no patience
Can brook thy roses, and thy lutes,
And pottle-deep potations.