Child of fair mother, and thyself more fair,
Make, lady, of that libellous verse of mine
What end thou wilt. To burn it do not spare,
Or, if thou list, to Hadria's gulf consign.

Not she of Dindymus, nor the god within
The cave of Pytho present such mad heat
In priests excites, nor Liber; not such din
Do Corybants when their gongs they wildly beat

Arouse, as baleful wrath, which Noric sword
Deters not, nor the wreck-strewn billows high,
Devouring fire, nor e'en heaven's mighty lord
With awful thunder crashing through the sky.

'Tis said Prometheus, bidden to infuse
Into the primal clay ingredients ta'en
From every source, did for our stomach use
The raging lion's violence insane.

'Twas anger that brought low Thyestes' head
In ruin bare, of towered cities' fall
Stood out chief cause, and insolent army led
Of foemen through the levelled rampart wall

To drive their furrow. Bridle then thine ire.
I own that me too in the pleasant days
Of youth mad passion seized and did inspire
To pen those hasty lines in thy dispraise.

Now to let rancour from my bosom fade,
And in its room set mildness I intend,
So but thou wilt, my recantation made,
Give back thy heart and be again my friend.