Quick, boy, the chaplets and the nard,And wine, that knew the Marsian war,If roving Spartacus have sparedA single jar.And bid Neaera come and trill,Her bright locks bound with careless art:If her rough porter cross your will,Why then depart.Soon palls the taste for noise and fray,When hair is white and leaves are sere:How had I fired in life's warm May,In Plancus' year!Wife of Ibycus the poor,Let aged scandals have at length their bound:Give your graceless doings o'er,Ripe as you are for going underground.