At three years
A horse is full-grown and all burdens bears;
At that age a boy can but play, and rest;
Yearns aloud in sleep for his mother’s breast.
Hardly is life for the young man begun
When the wind-galled steed’s course long since was run.
And Scylla? She might have chos’n to be fish,
Or to bark as dogs, and have had her wish;
But as a pair!
And Chimæra again?