I am shocked to discover that Roman poet Horace wrote the most outrageous filth. So shocked, in fact, that I felt the need to reproduce my findings here:

When thirsty, do you need a golden goblet?
When starved, a turbot grilled or roasted peacock?
When your pecker’s stiff, why torture it?
A servant girl is there to serve

… and it avoids the panic that ensues should a noble lover’s husband return home at an inopportune moment:

The house in wild uproar, the woman pale
With panic jumping out of bed, her maid
Shrieking bloody murder, everyone in
Terror: one of being whipped, the other
Of losing dowry, I of losing life.

These Romans. Terribly licentious. I must read some more… Haron: get your toga.