At this time, several thousand years ago,
In the fading welter of sunset's dying glow,
In the Golden Age young Herakles besought
The haunt of nymphs and took them in his sport.
Leonine, iron-bicepped, passionate,
He was enough to vanquish and to sate
Seven at one blow and in one dusk,
Tearing the fruit of love from its ripened husk

Now in the twentieth century, Age of Gold,
You, Mr. So-and-So, thirty-three years old,
On the bus to the moving picture show
Take Miss Brown and sip a pine-apple soda,
Afterwards politely bid her good-night and bow.

O Tempora! O Mores! Where art thou?