ODE XII. UPON LYCE, AN ANTIQUATED COURTEZAN.
He insults her with extreme bitterness; that now being old,
and yet retaining her lustful appetite, she is contemned by the young gallants.
Lyce, the gods my vows have heard,
At length they've heard my vows;
You wou'd be beauteous with a beard,
You romp and you carouse:
And drunk, with trembling voice, you court
Slow Cupid, prone to seek
For better music, bloom, and sport,
In buxom Chia's cheek.
For he, a sauce-box, scorns dry chips,
And teeth decay'd and green;
Where wrinkled forehead, and chapt lips,
And snowy hairs are seen.
Nor Coan elegance, nor gems,
Your past years will restore;
Which time to his records condemns,
With fleeting wings of yore.
Ah! where's that form, complexion, grace,
That air—where is she, say,
That cou'd my sick'ning soul solace,
And stole my heart away?
Blest! who cou'd Cynara succeed,
As artful and as fair—
But fate, to Cynara, decreed
Few summers for her share.
That crow-like Lyce might survive,
'Till lads shou'd laugh and shout,
To see the torch, but just alive,
So slowly stinking out.
