Nought is too arduous for man:
We foolish, heaven itself invade,
Our desperate crimes fresh outbreaks plan;
And force Jove’s hand, by mercy stay’d,
The angry bolts to launch at last.
BOOK I.—ODE V.
What slender youth, whom many roses crown,
Whose hair rich liquid unguents steal adown,
Wooes thee, coy Pyrrha, in some pleasant grot?