Horace Ode 1.25

Wild young men more sparingly shake (your) closed windows with thick blows, nor do they deny you sleep, Lydia, and the door loves the threshold which easily before used to move a lot; you hear less and less now “Lydia, with me, yours, dying, do you sleep the long nights?” In turn as a thin old woman you will weep for your arrogant adulterers in the lonely ally, with the Thracian wind raging more under the new moon, when burning love and lust will savage around your ulcerous liver, which is accustomed to madden the mothers of horses, not without complaint that the happy youth rejoices more in green ivy and blackish myrtle; she will commit dry leaves to the East Wind, companion of winter.