Odes 4.10 (Martin): O Crudelis Adhuc

Ah, cruel, cruel still,
And yet divinely fair,
When Time with fingers chill
Shall thin the wavy hair,
Which now in many a wanton freak
Around thy shoulders flows,
When fades the bloom, which on thy cheek
Now shames the blushing rose;

Ah, then as in thy glass
Thou gazest in dismay,
Thou 'It cry, "Alas! Alas!
Why feel I not to-day,
As in my maiden bloom, when I
Unmoved heard lovers moan;
Or, now that I would win them, why
Is all my beauty flown?"