Horace: Book III, Ode 15.
"Uxor pauperis Ibyci—"
Your conduct, naughty Chloris, is
Not just exactly Horace's
Ideal of a lady
At the shady
Time of life;
You mustn't throw your soul away
On foolishness, like Pholoe—
Her days are folly-laden—
She's a maiden,
You're a wife.
Your daughter, with propriety,
May look for male society,
Do one thing and another
In which mother
Shouldn't mix;
But revels Bacchanalian
Are—or should be—quite alien
To you a married person,
Something worse'n
Forty-six!
Yes, Chloris, you cut up too much,
You love the dance and cup too much,
Your years are quickly flitting—
To your knitting,
Right about!
Forget the incidental things
That keep you from parental things—
The World, the Flesh, the Devil,
On the level,
Cut 'em out!
R.S.V.P.
AD PHYLLIDEM
Horace: Book IV Ode II
"Est mihi nonum superantis annum"
Phyllis, I've a keg of fine fermented grape juice,
Alban wine that's been nine years in the cellar.
Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden,
Plenty of parsley.