TO A YOUNG LADY HORACE HAD OFFENDED.
Horace
O daughter, more charming than your charming mother, put what end you
please to my insulting iambics; either in the flames, or, if you choose
it, in the Adriatic. Nor Cybele, nor Apollo, the dweller in the shrines,
so shakes the breast of his priests; Bacchus does not do it equally, nor
do the Corybantes so redouble their strokes on the sharp-sounding
cymbals, as direful anger; which neither the Noric sword can deter, nor
the shipwrecking sea, nor dreadful fire, not Jupiter himself rushing
down with awful crash. It is reported that Prometheus was obliged to add
to that original clay [with which he formed mankind], some ingredient
taken from every animal, and that he applied the vehemence of the raging
lion to the human breast. It was rage that destroyed Thyestes with
horrible perdition; and has been the final cause that lofty cities have
been entirely demolished, and that an insolent army has driven the
hostile plowshare over their walls. Compose your mind. An ardor of soul
attacked me also in blooming youth, and drove me in a rage to the
writing of swift-footed iambics. Now I am desirous of exchanging
severity for good nature, provided that you will become my friend, after
my having recanted my abuse, and restore me your affections.
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