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.You the maidens' dance to lead,And cast your gloom upon those beaming stars!Daughter Pholoe may succeed,But mother Chloris what she touches mars.Young men's homes your daughter storms,Like Thyiad, madden'd by the cymbals' beat:Nothus' love her bosom warms:She gambols like a fawn with silver feet.