Nought is there for man too high;Our impious folly e'en would climb the sky,Braves the dweller on the steep,Nor lets the bolts of heavenly vengeance sleep.

The touch of Zephyr and of Spring has loosen'd Winter's thrall;The well-dried keels are wheel'd again to sea:The ploughman cares not for his fire, nor cattle for their stall,And frost no more is whitening all the lea.Now Cytherea leads the dance, the bright moon overhead;The Graces and the Nymphs, together knit,With rhythmic feet the meadow beat, while Vulcan, fiery red,Heats the Cyclopian forge in Aetna's pit.