Out Of Horace. Carmin. Lib.2 . Od.8 Poem by Daniel Baker

If ever this thy frequent breach of Oath
Had punish'd been with one black Tooth,
If but one Nail, or Hair of thine had bin
Less smooth or curled for thy Sin,
I would believe the Gods above take Care
To punish such as do forswear.
But thou, as soon as black false Oaths thou'st swore,
Shin'st out far brighter than before
(Like the Sun breaking from a Cloud) and art
The only Care of every Heart.
It mends thy Beauty, thine own Mothers Grave
To violate, and her Ghost deceive;
To make the Stars of Heav'n avouch thy lies,
And e'en the immortal Deities.
Venus her self laughs and her Nymphs at this
A sport to cruel Love it is,
Who makes thy faithless Vows serve for a Stone
To whet his bloody Darts upon.
Nay, all the Youth, (poor ign'rant Tribe) for thee
Grows up a new Captivity:
Nor have we (tho' we threaten it oft) the Power,
Old Fools! to leave thy wicked Door.
Thee for her Sons the careful Mother fears,
And cov'tous old Men for their Heirs;
And poor young Women, lest thy pow'rful Charms
Should draw their Husbands from their tender Arms.