The goddess, who the ingenious still befriends, On this occasion her assistance lends; His arms with feathers, as he fell, she veils, And in the air a new-made bird he sails. The quickness of his genius, once so fleet, Still in his wings remains, and in his feet; Still, though transform’d, his ancient name he keeps, And with low flight the new-shorn stubble sweeps, Declines the lofty trees, and thinks it best To brood in hedge-rows o’er its humble nest; And, in remembrance of the former ill, Avoids the heights and precipices still.

At length, fatigued with long laborious flights, On fair Sicilia’s plains the artist lights; Where Cocalus, the king, that gave him aid, Was, for his kindness, with esteem repaid. Athens no more her doleful tribute sent, That hardship gallant Theseus did prevent; Their temples hung with garlands, they adore Each friendly god, but most Minerva’s power; To her, to Jove, to all, their altars smoke, They each with victims and perfumes invoke.