92
OVID TO HIS WIFE.
Without the added rage of Scythian ſkies?
The ſnow of time my vital heat exhauſt,
And hoary age, without Sarmatian froſt?
Yet ſtorm and tempeſt are of ills the leaſt
Which this inhoſpitable land infeſt:
Society than ſolitude is worſe,
And man to man is ſtill the greateſt curſe.
A ſavage race my fearful ſteps ſurround,
Practis'd in blood and diſciplin'd to wound;
Unknown alike to pity as to fear,
Hard as their ſoil, and as their ſkies ſevere.
Skill'd in each myſtery of direſt art,
They arm with double death the poiſon'd dart.
Uncomb'd and horrid grows their ſpiky hair;
Uncouth their veſture, terrible their air.
The lurking dagger at their ſide hung low,
Leaps in quick vengeance on the hapleſs foe.
No
