BkIV:XIII You too, Lyce

Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers, the gods have
heard me, Lyce: you’re growing old, but still desire
the power of beauty, and still
you play, and drink quite shamelessly,

and, drunk, you urge dull Cupid on with tremulous
singing. He’s keeping watch on the beautiful cheeks
of Chia the young and fresh,
who’s expert at playing the harp.

For he flies disdainfully past the withered oak,
and he runs away from you, since you’re disfigured
by those now yellowing teeth,
those wrinkles, and that greying hair.

Now gowns of Coan purple, and those expensive
jewels, won’t bring back time, that the passage of days
has shut away, and buried,
a matter of public record.

Where’s Venus fled, alas, and beauty? And where now
are your graceful gestures? What is left of that girl,
that girl who once breathed of love,
who stole me away from myself,

happy when Cinara had vanished, and famous
for your looks and your charming ways? The Fates granted
Cinara the briefest years,
preserving Lyce, endlessly,

to suffer as long a life as an ancient crow,
so that the burning youths with many a ripple
of laughter, are here to gaze
at a fire that’s fallen to ashes.