Bkiii:Xv Too Old

O, dear wife of poor Ibycus, put an end to your wickedness, at last, and all of your infamous goings-on: now you are nearer the season for dying, stop playing about with the girls, and scattering a mist over shining stars. What fits Pholoe is not quite fitting for you, Chloris: while your daughter’s more suited to storming the houses of lovers, like a Bacchante stirred by the beating drum. Her love for Nothus forces her to gambol like a lascivious she-goat: the wool that’s shorn near to noble Luceria’s fitting for you, sad old thing, not the dark red flower of the rose, nor the lyre, nor the wine-jars drained to their dregs