Odes 3.10 (Martin): Extremum Tanain

Though your drink were the Tanais, chillest of rivers,
And your lot with some conjugal savage were cast,
You should pity, sweet Lyce, the poor soul that shivers
Out here at your door in the merciless blast.

Only hark how the doorway goes straining and creaking,
And the piercing wind pipes through the trees that surround
The court of your villa, while black frost is streaking
With ice the crisp snow that lies thick on the ground!

In your pride — Venus hates it — no longer envelop ye,
Or haply you'll find yourself laid on the shelf;
You never were made for a prudish Penelope,
'Tis not in the blood of your sires or yourself.

Though nor gifts nor entreaties can win a soft answer,
Nor the violet pale of my love-ravaged cheek,
Though your husband be false with a Greek ballet-dancer,
And you still are true, and forgiving, and meek;

Ladies should n't as snakes of the jungle be cruel,
Nor at heart be as tough as the oak's toughest bole;
And I can't stand out here every evening, my jewel,
Singing, drench'd to the skin, nor I won't, on my soul!