Though he is fairer, milder,Than starlight, you lighter than bark of tree,Than stormy Hadria wilder,With you to live, to die, were bliss for me.

Ah Lyce! though your drink were Tanais,Your husband some rude savage, you would weepTo leave me shivering, on a night like this,Where storms their watches keep.Hark! how your door is creaking! how the groveIn your fair courtyard, while the wild winds blow,Wails in accord! with what transparence JoveIs glazing the driven snow!Cease that proud temper: Venus loves it not:The rope may break, the wheel may backward turn:Begetting you, no Tuscan sire begotPenelope the stern.