No need of Moorish archer's craftTo guard the pure and stainless liver;He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaftTo store his quiver,Whether he traverse Libyan shoals,Or Caucasus, forlorn and horrent,Or lands where far Hydaspes rollsHis fabled torrent.A wolf, while roaming trouble-freeIn Sabine wood, as fancy led me,Unarm'd I sang my Lalage,Beheld, and fled me.Dire monster! in her broad oak woodsFierce Daunia fosters none such other,Nor Juba's land, of lion broodsThe thirsty mother.Place me where on the ice-bound plainNo tree is cheer'd by summer breezes,Where Jove descends in sleety rainOr sullen freezes;