Odes 1.16 (Martin): O Matre Pulchra

O DAUGHTER, in beauty more exquisite still
Than a mother, whose beauty we all must admire,
My scurrilous verses destroy, how you will.
Deep drown them in ocean, or quench them in fire!

Dindymene herself, nor the Pythian, when
He convulses his priests with the fury prophetic,
Nor Bacchus, nor Corybants, clashing again
And again their wild cymbals, such fervour phrenetic

Can move as fell rage; which no terrors can tame,
Neither Norican glaive, nor the ocean bestrew'd
With wreck and disaster, nor merciless flame,
Nor the thunders of Jove in his vengefullest mood.

'Tis the curse of our birth; for Prometheus, they say,
Compell'd from all beasts some particular part
To select for his work, to our primitive clay
Imparted the lion's impetuous heart.

Rage drew on Thyestes the vengeance of heaven,
Through rage have been levell'd the loftiest halls
And cities high-famous, and ploughshares been driven
By insolent enemies over their walls.

O, stifle the fiend! In the pleasant spring time i
Of my youth he enkindled my breast with his flame,
And headlong I dash'd into petulant rhyme,
Which now in my manhood I think on with shame.

But a kindlier mood hath my passion supplanted,
And music more gentle shall flow from my lute,
Would'st thou make me thy friend, — my vile libels recanted, —
And smile with reciprocal love on my suit!