X.
In order to restrain this mad desire,
Impossible and rash, and thus to miss
The fall from danger's crag, ah, if for this
My proud thoughts, blind with what they most admire,
Still fail to see what safety would require,
Me as I am, too timid or too bold,
In such confusion that I dare not hold
The reins of that which sets my soul on fire;
What can it serve to see the pictured tale
Of him who, falling with scorched wings, gave name
And celebration to the Icarian seas;
Or that where (poplars now) seven maids bewail
Their Phaëton's past frenzy, and the flame
Whose rage the' Italian waves could scarce appease?
XI.
Strange icy throes the arms of Daphne bind,
Which shoot, and spread, and lengthen into boughs;
And into green leaves metamorphosed shows
The head whose locks, wooed by the summer wind,
Made the fine gold seem dim; the rigorous rind
Clothes the soft members that still pant; her feet,
Snowy as swift, in earth fast rooted meet,
By thousand tortuous fibres intertwined.
The author of an injury so great,
With virtue of his tears this laurel fed,
Which flourished thus, perpetual greenness keeping;
Oh fatal growth! oh miserable estate!
That from his weeping each fresh day should spread
The very cause and reason of his weeping.