TO LIGURINUS.
Horace
O cruel still, and potent in the endowments of beauty, when an
unexpected plume shall come upon your vanity, and those locks, which now
wanton on your shoulders, shall fall off, and that color, which is now
preferable to the blossom of the damask rose, changed, O Ligurinus,
shall turn into a wrinkled face; [then] will you say (as often as you
see yourself, [quite] another person in the looking glass), Alas! why
was not my present inclination the same, when I was young? Or why do not
my cheeks return, unimpaired, to these my present sentiments?
* * * * *