Bore loosely from the ground, and wafted here and there:
Or with the wax impertinently play’d,
And with his childish tricks the great design delay’d.
The final masterstroke at last imposed,
And now, the great machine completely closed;
Fitting his pinions on, a flight he tries,
And hung self-balanced in the beaten skies.
Then thus instructs his child: “My boy, take care
To wing your course along the middle air:
If low, the surges wet your flagging plumes;