Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • 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.
  • Yours should be the wool that grows
  • By fair Luceria, not the merry lute:
  • Flowers beseem not wither'd brows,.
  • Nor wither'd lips with emptied wine-jars suit.