Classic Poem

So my random rhymes displeased you,
Loveliest of ladies; how
Wroth you are—to be appeased you
Crave for vengeance, and your brow
Clouds with reddening anger now.

Take the verses rude, erratic,
(Which were never meant to pain)
Drown them in the Adriatic;
Burn them, strew them o'er the plain—
Only do not frown again.

Baleful anger, what can stay it?
Neither flame nor sword nor sea.
Jove himself can not dismay it;
It is powerful as he
In its potent tyranny.

When Prometheus dared to fashion
Man, by mingling worst and best
Of each beast, he took the passion
Of the raging lion and pressed
Anger in the human breast.

Rage is herald to perdition;
At its blast the city falls.
Armies suffer demolition,
While the foe, whom naught appals,
Drives his plowshares through the walls.

Clear your forehead. Anger frantic
Works but ill, and fiercer than
Storms and tumults Corybantic
Is the savage wrath of man.
Curb it, lady, when you can.

I myself, when young, was given
To the swift iambic verse
And, with reckless ardor driven,
I would often intersperse
Satires with a careless curse.

Now I turn to dull excuses—
Come and be my friend once more.
I recant my rhymed abuses,
Hoping that you will restore
Your affection … as before.