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.O, though no gift, no “prevalence of prayer,”Nor lovers' paleness deep as violet,Nor husband, smit with a Pierian fair,Move you, have pity yet!O harder e'en than toughest heart of oak,Deafer than uncharm'd snake to suppliant moans!This side, I warn you, will not always brookRain-water and cold stones.