What is life, what is joy, without golden Aphrodite? May I die when these things no longer move me, a secret love, soothing gifts, the bed, those tempting flowers of youth there to be plucked by men and women. But when agonizing age sets in, making repulsive even a handsome man, then constant anxious cares afflict his mind, he takes no joy in seeing the shafts of the sun, but is loathsome to boys, despised by women. What a pain the god made age.
