Odes 1.8 (Creech): Lydia, Dic Per Omnes

TEll, Lydia, tell me this,
By all the Gods I do conjure Thee tell
Why Thou wilt ruine Lybaris
By loving of the Youth too well:

Why doth He hate the Plain
That can endure the fury of the Skies,
The burning Sun, the Wind and Rain:
By Nature fitted for the Prize?

Why now refuse to ride
Amidst his Equals, and with graceful force
The fury of his Coarser guide,
And bravely sit the manag'd Horse?

Why Yellow Tyber's stream
Doth He now hate? why fear to touch the flood,
And why the shining Oyl contemn
With greater care than Viper's blood?

Why do his Arms no more
Look black with blows and honourable scars
Which once with just applause He bore,
When Fame attended on his Wars?

So justly prais'd for Art,
So fam'd for strength, when thro the wondring throng
Beyond the bounds he threw the Dart,
Which swiftly bore his praise along.

Why doth he now lie hid,
As once complying with his Mother's fears
The Great, the Brave Achilles did,
Lest Manly dress should force him on to Wars?