Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear;
The wife of poor old Ibycus should have more _savoir faire_.
A woman at your time of life, and drawing near death's door,
Should not play with the girly girls, and think she's _en rapport_.
What's good enough for Pholoe you cannot well essay;
Your daughter very properly courts _the jeunesse dorée_,--
A Thyiad, who, when timbrel beats, cannot her joy restrain,
But plays the kid, and laughs and giggles _à l'Américaine_.
'T is more becoming, Madame, in a creature old and poor,
To sit and spin than to engage in an _affaire d'amour_.
The lutes, the roses, and the wine drained deep are not for you;
Remember what the poet says: _Ce monde est plein de fous!_