Book XI, 41

Seven years added to thirty are gone already like so many pages torn out of my life ; already, Xanthippe, my head is sprinkled with grey hairs, messengers of the age of wisdom. But still I care for the speaking music of the lyre and for revelling, and in my insatiate heart the fire is alive. But ye Muses, my mistresses, bring it to a close at once with the words “ Xanthippe is the end of my madness.”’