Odes 4.13 (Martin): Audivere, Lyce

Lyce, the gods have heard my prayer,
The gods have heard your ill-used lover,
You still would be thought both young and fair,
But you've lost your looks, and your hey-day's over:
You may tipsily wanton, and quaver, and trill,
But the love you would waken will slumber on still.

In the dimples of Chia's fair cheek he lies,
Chia that lilts to her lyre so sweetly;
From crab-trees insipid and old he flies,
And you, Lyce, you he forswears completely;
For your teeth don't keep, and your wrinkles are deep,
And your forehead is snow capp'd, and rugged, and steep.

Not purple of Cos, nor gems star-bright,
Can recall the days that are gone and going;
O, where is the bloom and the smile of light,
And the step of grace, self-poised and flowing?
Of her, who my soul of itself bereft,
Who fixed all with passion, ah, what is left?

Thou to Cinara next for charm of face,
And love-luring wiles on my heart wert graven;
But Cinara died in her youth's fresh grace,
Whilst thou art like to outlive the raven,
Dying down, a spent torch, into ashes and smoke,
The butt of each roystering youngster's joke!