Analysis of Horace to Pyrrha

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,
 With smiles for diet,
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,
 On the quiet?
For whom do you bind up your tresses,
 As spun-gold yellow,--
Meshes that go, with your caresses,
 To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious,
 And curse you duly!
Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,
 You perfect, truly!
Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean;
 He'll soon fall in there!
Then shall I gloat on his commotion,
 For I have been there!