Odes 1.16 (Creech): O Matre Pulchra

OH Daughter fair, of greater Charms
Than those with which thy Mother warms,
My guilty Verses how you please
Destroy, in Flames (thô scarce so hot
As that fierce rage with which I wrote)
Or in the angry Seas.

Not Cybele such heat inspires
Ne're Phoebus with such raging fires
His Prophet's Soul possess't,
Not Bacchus self can raise a Man
Half so much as Anger can
When once it burns the Breast:

Not Tears nor Kindness can asswage,
Nor Force nor Danger curb the rage,
It ventures boldly on;
It scorns to be confin'd by Jove,
Or all the Thund'ring Powers above,
But by its boundless self alone.

When Bold Prometheus first began,
As Story goes, to make a Man
From every thing He snatcht a part
To furnish out his Clay
And to compleat his rude essay,
And plac't a Lions fury in the Heart.

'Twas Rage that made the Brothers hate,
Rage wrought Thyestes wond'rous fate;
'Twas Rage that kill'd the Child;
That fed the Father with the Son,
And when it saw the mighty Mischief done,
Stood by, and (what was strange) it smil'd.

'Tis that that raises all our Wars,
And brings our Dangers and our Fears,
When the insulting Foe
Whil'st Anger burns, and Rage prevails
O're Town and Cities ruin'd Walls
Doth draw the heavy Plough.

Then curb thy Anger charming Maid,
That once my heedless Youth betray'd,
It rais'd a deadly flame;
And hurry'd on my thought-less Muse
In swift Iambicks to abuse
And wanton with thy fame.

But now I do repent the wrong,
And now compose a softer Song
To make Thee just amends:
Recant the Errors of my Youth,
And swear those scandals were not Truth;
So You and I be friends.