O lovelier than the lovely dame (O MATRE PULCHRA)

     O lovelier than the lovely dame
       That bore you, sentence as you please
     Those scurril verses, be it flame
       Your vengeance craves, or Hadrian seas.
     Not Cybele, nor he that haunts
       Rich Pytho, worse the brain confounds,
     Not Bacchus, nor the Corybants
       Clash their loud gongs with fiercer sounds
     Than savage wrath; nor sword nor spear
       Appals it, no, nor ocean's frown,
     Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter
       In hideous ruin crashing down.
     Prometheus, forced, they say, to add
       To his prime clay some favourite part
     From every kind, took lion mad,
       And lodged its gall in man's poor heart.
     'Twas wrath that laid Thyestes low;
       'Tis wrath that oft destruction calls
     On cities, and invites the foe
       To drive his plough o'er ruin'd walls.
     Then calm your spirit; I can tell
       How once, when youth in all my veins
     Was glowing, blind with rage, I fell
       On friend and foe in ribald strains.
     Come, let me change my sour for sweet,
       And smile complacent as before:
     Hear me my palinode repeat,
       And give me back your heart once more.

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