Quintus Horatius Flaccus

The young bloods comes round less often now,
Pelting your shutters and making a row
And robbing your beauty sleep.  Now the door
Clings lovingly close to the jamb, though, before,

It used to move on its hinge pretty fast.
Those were the days – and they’re almost past -
When lovers stood out all night long crying,
“Lydia, wake up! Save me! I’m dying!”