Something borrowed.

Ode 1.25

More rarely now the bold youths shake
your fastened windows with frequent blows,
or from you slumber steal, and the door
adores its jamb

which once moved easy on its hinges.
You hear less and less now,
“While I--yours!--through the long night perish,
Lydia, do you sleep?”

By turns, old bag, you’ll weep
your playboys’ disdain-- solitary in some nameless
alley, as the Thracian wind raves up
beneath the dark moon,

while blazing love and desire, which stokes
to flame the mares, savages
around your pock-marked heart--
and not without complaint

because the laughing young cocks delight more in ivy
verdant and myrtle dark, leaving
parched fronds to the east wind,
the consort of winter.

--Horace