Horace Odes 1:25
Young men stumbling home from parties
don’t throw pebbles at your windows now.
You sleep till dawn and that busy door
of yours now hugs the step. No one
asks how you can sleep when they are dying
all night long for love of you. Times change.
You’re old and no one gives a damn.
You’ll weep at all the men who have deserted you
as gales from Thrace roar down
that empty lane on moonless nights.
The hot lust which sends mares mad
will flare around your ulcerated heart
and you’ll cry out at the young men
who love the ivy and the dark green myrtle
but who throw the dry leaves
into the East wind, that bride of winter.