O than a beauteous mother lovelier still,
Do with my wayward verses what you will,
Let the fierce flame consume them, or the wave
Of Hadrian hide them in a drowning grave.

Not Dindymenës' inspiration fills
Her worshippers, not wine, nor Phœbus thrills
The heart more fiercely, nor the mimic war
With maddening cymbal clashing from afar,

Excites the Corybantes with such ire
As springs from malice! This nor ocean's swell
Lash'd with the storm, nor Noric-sword, nor fire
Nor Jupiter with all his bolts can quell.

Prometheus, ere his arduous task began,
From various beasts our various passions chose,
And placed the lion in the breast of man,
Thenceforth to ravin there in wrathful woes.

'Twas anger laid Thyestes low
And levell'd cities with the ground;
Anger the cause of all their woe
Which bade the insulting foe surround
With hostile plough, where erst the rampart frown'd.

Be calmer then: I too ere now
When youth was mine, enrag'd with thee,
In verses bade my choler flow:
But O forgive, love, pity me!
Let me recant that impious strain,
And give me thy esteem again.