TO LYCE.
Horace
O Lyce, had you drunk from the remote Tanais, in a state of marriage
with tome barbarian, yet you might be sorry to expose me, prostrate
before your obdurate doors, to the north winds that have made those
places their abode. Do you hear with what a noise your gate, with what
[a noise] the grove, planted about your elegant buildings, rebellows to
the winds? And how Jupiter glazes the settled snow with his bright
influence? Lay aside disdain, offensive to Venus, lest your rope should
run backward, while the wheel is revolving. Your Tyrrhenian father did
not beget you to be as inaccessible as Penelope to your wooers. O though
neither presents, nor prayers, nor the violet-tinctured paleness of your
lovers, nor your husband smitten with a musical courtezan, bend you to
pity; yet [at length] spare your suppliants, you that are not softer
than the sturdy oak, nor of a gentler disposition than the African
serpents. This side [of mine] will not always be able to endure your
threshold, and the rain.
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