O come off it honey: your lover's on welfare,
You're past it—but out a cruise bar
All done up in leather!
Who do you think you're kidding?
Gray hairs don't go down with the glitz kids.
Look! young guys can do it: even that one
You call your 'nephew', who's known in that crowd
As 'Miss DBT', says the south wind gets to her
Uh, huh . . . You, it doesn't suit
To scut like a cat in heat. It's time
To take up a nightcourse, say, in textiles,
Give up the loud music and pancake
And most of all, get off the gin.
Wife of impoverished Ibycus, put an end once and for all to your
wantonness and your notorious behavior; approaching as you are a
timely grave, cease to sport among the young girls, casting a
cloud over their bright stars. Just because something suits
Pholoe very well, doesn't mean it suits you, Chloris. Your
daughter more rightly storms the houses of the young men, just
like a Bacchic roused by the beaten timbrel. A passion for
Nothus compels her to sport like an aroused she-goat: but your
charms are set off to advantage by the wool shorn near nobel
Lucernia, not by the purple bloom of the rose or casks of wine
drained to their dregs by an old woman.