Classic Poem

If of far Don to drink your lot it were,
A stern man's wife, yet might your heart be sore
To expose me to the north winds native there,
Stretched, Lyce, at your cruel door.

Hear you how creak the gates, how through the trees,
That in the court of your fair mansion grow,
The winds are roaring, how heaven's lord doth freeze
With clear cold breath the lying snow?

Lay down your pride, offence in Venus' eyes,
Lest wheel run back and let the cord go free.
You no Penelope deaf to suitors' sighs
Were bred by Tuscan sire to be.

O though nor gifts nor prayers avail one whit
To bend you, nor wan lovers' cheeks with stain
Of violet tinged, nor husband sorely smit
By slave girl's charms, your suppliants deign

To spare. Ah! stiff as tough oak bough your will,
And cruel as the fell Moroccan snake.
My side will not for aye this threshold chill
Brook, and heaven's water for your sake.