The god repented of the oath he took; For anguish thrice lis radiant head he shook. “My son,” said he, “some other proof require; Rash was my promise, rash is thy desire. I’d fain deny this wish which thou hast made, Or, what I can’t deny, would fain dissuade. Too vast and hazardous the task appears, Nor suited to thy strength, nor to thy years. Thy lot is mortal, but thy wishes fly Beyond the province of mortality. There is not one of all the gods that dares (However skill’d in other great affairs) To mount the burning axletree but I; Not Jove himself, the ruler of the sky, That hurls the three-fork’d thunder from above, Dares try his strength: yet who so strong as Jove? The steeds climb up the first ascent with pain, And when the middle firmament they gain, If downwards from the heavens my head I bow, And see the earth and ocean hang below, Ev’n I am seized with horror and affright, And my own heart misgives me at the sight. A mighty downfall steeps the evening stage; And steady reins must curb the horses’ rage: