Odes 3.10 (Creech): Extremum Tanain

DId Lyde Drink cold Tanais Flood,
A Scythians Bride that fed on Blood;
Yet would you grieve to see the Kind,
The constant Horace grasp the Floor,
Extended by thy cruel Door,
Expos'd toth' fury of the Native Wind.

Dost hear what Tempests beat thy Gate?
How all rush on as arm'd with Fate?
And how thy pleasing Groves are tost?
With what severe and piercing light
The Moon and Stars now guild the Night,
And glaze the scatter'd Snow with hoary Frost?

Thy haughty Pride and Scorn remove,
Ingrate and Enemy to Love;
My passions Tide may ebb again;
No Scythian Mother brought Thee forth,
And hardned by the freezing North,
That ardent Lovers thus should court in vain.

If all my Prayers and Gifts are weak,
Nor violent paleness of my Cheek
The Lover's Livery, can move;
If that thy Husband scorns thy Charms,
And takes a Songstress to his Arms,
Can n're provoke Thee to my firmer Love.

O stiff as Oaks to warm desire
Too hard to burn in my soft Fire,
As fierce as Snakes on Lybian Shore;
Tho now my patient side can bear
Thy Door, the Rain, and piercing Air,
Yet time will come when 'twill endure no more.