Odes 3.11 (Creech): Mercuri, Nam Te

SWeet Mercury (for taught by you
The listning Stones Amphion drew)
And pleasing Shell, well skill'd to raise
From seven stretcht strings the sweetest Lays;
Once mute, but now a Friend to Feasts,
To cheer the Gods, and Rich-mens guests,
Play Tunes, as may provoke to hear
E'en Lydes coy denying Ear.
She like a Colt frisks o're the Plain,
A Rider hates, nor takes the Rein;
Unable yet to bear the force
And strength of the obliging Horse:
You Tigers, you the listning Woods
Can draw and stop the rapid Floods,
E'en Cerberus thy force confest,
Well-pleas'd He lay, and lull'd in rest,
Tho thousand hissing Serpents spread
And guard around his horrid Head,
And Gore foam'd round his tripple Tongue
He gently list'ned to thy Song:
Ixion, Tytius heard below,
And smil'd but with a gloomy Brow:
The leaky Tub a while was dry,
And Danaus Race stood idle by,
Whilst thy harmonious Tunes did please
They smil'd at their unusual ease;
Begin sweet Lays, let Lyde hear
What Crimes they did, what Pains they bear,
Tell how their Tub can nought retain,
But still gives space for idle pain;
How Vengeance comes, tho moving slow,
And strikes the guilty Souls below:
They could, (could Hell contrive a blacker deed)
Their Husbands stab, and smile to see them bleed:
But one more Worthy of the Name of Wife
The hopes and end of every Virgin's Life,
Her perjur'd Father bravely disobey'd,
And lives thro future Age a glorious Maid:
With Love and Pity in her look
She wakt her Spouse, and thus she spoke,
Fly, fly, lest Fate should seize thy breath,
And sleep be lengthned into Death:
Fly, fly, thy unexpected Fate,
My Sisters Rage, and Fathers Hate,
Like Lionesses on a Steer
They grin, and tear, ah me! they tear:
More tender I'le not strike the blow,
Nor keep Thee from a fiercer Foe:
Me let me Father load with Chains,
Joyn Wit and Cruelty in Pains;
Me let him send to Lybian Shores,
Mid'st Poysnous Snakes, and swarthy Moors,
For saving you, I'le gladly bear,
Nor show I'me Woman by a Tear:
Fly, fly, dear Partner of my Bed,
Whilst Night can hide, and Venus lead,
Fly, fly, let happy Omens wait,
And guide Thee thro gloomy Fate;
Remember me, and o're my Grave
Write this in a complaining Epitaph: