Yesterday's poem put me in mind of a version from half a century ago:

Who is that slender, scented boy whose embrace

You’re yielding to at the moment, Pyrrha, lying

In some rosy grotto, for whom I saw you tying

That blonde hair up with such unstudied grace?

Soon, when the storm clouds gather, he’ll complain

And curse his luck as his shattered convoy sinks

With all its load of love, though now he thinks,

In his golden haze of pleasure, you’ll remain

As dumbly amorous as the first time he met you –

The breeze is no more fickle, goodness knows!

I feel an anticipatory pang for those

Who gape at you, but haven’t tried to get you.

I’ve hung my shipwrecked finery on the wall –

It’s only a miracle I got home at all.

While the sonnet is not without its beauties, it's flabby, I think – it doesn't have Horace's snap (not to mention crackle and pop).