Classic Poem

To that lampoon against your fame,
O fairer than the beauteous dame
That bore thee, put what shameful end you please,
Whether in flaming fire, or Adriatic seas.
Cybele, nor the priest possest,
Phoebus himself an inward guest,
Not Liber can the settl'd temper shake,
Not Corybantian drums with all the noise they make,
Like baleful ire, which neither blade
Of Noric temper has dismay'd,
Nor ship-devouring seas, nor fire-flakes red,
Nor Jove himself up-roaring in tremendous dread.
'Tis said Prometheus when controul'd
To work into the human mould
Some portion took from brutes of every kind,
And to the stomach's pride the lion's wrath assign'd.
'Twas wrath that could Thyestes quell,
By such a downfal, great and fell,
That final overthrow of towns, where now
O'er the raz'd walls the foe drive their insulting plough.
Take warning and suppress your rage;
Me also, in my blooming age,
Such sallies cou'd seduce too far to dare,
And in the keen Iambic satyrize my fair.
But now I would myself endear,
And for the gentle change severe,
Provided she my recantation view,
And be again my sweet, and all my hope renew.