Which rarely with reality agrees;
It smiles upon the ill-deserving man,270
And from the good withholds his meed of praise.
Let us make trial of that stubborn soul.
Mine be the task to approach the savage youth,
And bend his will relentless to our own.
Chorus: Thou goddess, child of the foaming sea,
Thou mother of love, how fierce are the flames,275
And how sharp are the darts of thy petulant boy;