TRANSLATED BY ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.
Borne on no weak or vulgar wing,
Upward through air, two-form’d, I’ll spring;
Nor longer grovel here, but soar
Where Envy shall pursue no more.
Not I, from humble lineage sprung,
Not I, dear Patron, whom thy tongue
Summons to fame, will fear to die,
Or bound by Styx’s fetters lie.
A rougher skin my legs assume;