O think of Phaethon half burn'd,And moderate your passion's greed:Think how Bellerophon was spurn'dBy his wing'd steed.So learn to look for partners meet,Shun lofty things, nor raise your aimsAbove your fortune. Come then, sweet,My last of flames(For never shall another fairEnslave me), learn a tune, to singWith that dear voice: to music careShall yield its sting.The gales of Thrace, that hush the unquiet sea,Spring's comrades, on the bellying canvas blow:Clogg'd earth and brawling streams alike are freeFrom winter's weight of snow.Wailing her Itys in that sad, sad strain,Builds the poor bird, reproach to after timeOf Cecrops' house, for bloody vengeance ta'enOn foul barbaric crime.