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.