What slim youth, Phyrrha, drenched in perfumed oils,
Lying in an easy grotto among roses, roses,
     Now woos, and watches you
     Gathering back your golden hair,

With artless elegance?  How many a time
Will he cry out, seeing all changed, the gods, your promise
     And stare in wondering shock
     At winds gone wild on blackening seas!

Now fondling you, his hope, his perfeect gold,
He leans on love's inviolable contancy, not dreaming
     How false the breeze can blow.
     Ah, pity all those who have not found

Your glossy sweetness out!  My shipwreck's tale
Hangs, told in colors, on Neptune's temple wall, a votice
     Plaque, with savaged clothes
     Still damp, vowed to the sea's rough lord.

--- Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus), Odes 1.5
           Tr.  Cedric Whitman

Ed.: Have been trying to find a decent translation of this lyric for some time and have been invariably thwarted at many turns, either by the mere finding or the quality of the translation.  This will have to do.  *Shrug*