Tethys herself has fear’d to see me driven Down headlong from the precipice of heaven. Besides, consider what impetuous force Turns stars and planets in a different course: I steer against their motions; nor am I Borne back by all the current of the sky. But how could you resist the orbs that roll In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid pole? But you, perhaps, may hope for pleasing woods, And stately domes, and cities fill’d with gods; While through a thousand snares your progress lies, Where forms of starry monsters stock the skies: For, should you hit the doubtful way aright, The bull, with stooping horns, stands opposite; Next him, the bright Haemonian bow is strung; And next, the lion’s grinning visage hung: The scorpion’s claws here clasp a wide extent; And here the crab’s in lesser clasps are bent. Nor would you find it easy to compose The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils flows The scorching fire that in their entrails glows. Ev’n I their headstrong fury scarce restrain, When they grow warm and restiff to the rein. Let not my son a fatal gift require;