From Horace

Shame of thy mother soyle! ill-nurtur'd tree!Sett, to the mischeife of posteritie!That hand (what e're it wer) that was thy nurse,Was sacrilegious (sure) or somewhat worse.Black, as the day was dismall, in whose sightThy rising topp first stain'd the bashfull light.That man---I thinke--wrested the feeble lifeFrom his old father, that man's barbarous knifeConspir'd with darknes 'gainst the strangers throate;(Whereof the blushing walles tooke bloody note)Huge high-floune poysons, eu'n of Colchos breed,And whatsoe're wild sinnes black thoughts doe feed,His hands haue padled in; his hands, that foundThy traiterous root a dwelling in my ground.Perfidious totterer! longing for the stainesOf thy kind Master's well-deseruing braines.Man's daintiest care, & caution cannot spyThe subtile point of his coy destiny,Wch way it threats. With feare the merchant's mindIs plough'd as deepe, as is the sea with wind,(Rowz'd in an angry tempest), Oh the sea!Oh! that's his feare; there flotes his destiny:While from another (vnseene) corner blowesThe storme of fate, to wch his life he owes;By Parthians bow the soldier lookes to die,(Whose hands are fighting, while their feet doe flie.)The Parthian starts at Rome's imperiall name,Fledg'd with her eagle's wing; the very chaineOf his captivity rings in his eares.Thus, o thus fondly doe wee pitch our fearesFarre distant from our fates, our fates, that mockeOur giddy feares with an vnlook't for shocke.A little more, & I had surely seeneThy greisly Majesty, Hell's blackest Queene;And Oeacus on his tribunall too,Sifting the soules of guilt; & you, (oh you!)You euer-blushing meads, where doe the blestFarre from darke horrors home appeale to rest.There amorous Sappho plaines vpon her luteHer loue's crosse fortune, that the sad disputeRunnes murmuring on the strings. Alcaeus thereIn high-built numbers wakes his golden lyreTo tell the world, how hard the matter went,How hard by sea, by warre, by banishment.There these braue soules deale to each wondring eareSuch words, soe precious, as they may not weareWithout religious silence; aboue allWarre's ratling tumults, or some tyrant's fall.The thronging clotted multitude doth feast:What wonder? when the hundred-headed beastHangs his black lugges, stroakt with those heavenly lines; earsThe Furies' curl'd snakes meet in gentle twines,And stretch their cold limbes in a pleasing fire.Prometheus selfe, and Pelops sterved sireAre cheated of their paines; Orion thinkesOf lions now noe more, or spotted linx.