Allelulia, Lycia, al
lelulia, my prayers have been heard. Time runs
on, your beauty's power is broken, Lycia, and
still you want to play.
Drinking deeply, teary-beery, you
sing a ditty to Cupid and pledge him sweetly, but
doting, he watches only Chloe- a skilled psalmist.
How he despises the old!
What's there to do but perch yourself on the dead
branch of an old oak, noting the to and fro
shuttlings of mindless Cupid, teeth gray,
cheeks creased, hair like snow.
Horace IV: 13
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