Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/18

O cruel Minos, thy Dominion be,
We'll go thro' Air; for sure the Air is free.
Then to new Arts his cunning Thought applies,
And to improve the Work of Nature tries.
A Row of Quills in gradual Order plac'd,
Rise by Degrees in Length from first to last;
As on a Cliff th' ascending Thicket grows,
Or, different Reeds the rural Pipe compose.
Along the Middle runs a Twine of Flax,
The Bottom Stems are joyn'd by pliant Wax.
Thus, well compact, a hollow Bending brings
The fine Composure into real Wings.
His Boy, young Icarus, that near him stood,
Unthinking of his Fate, with Smiles pursu'd
The floating Feathers, which the moving Air
Bore loosely from the Ground, and wasted here and there.
Or with the Wax impertinently play'd,
And with his childish Tricks the great Design delay'd.
The final Master-stroke at last impos'd,
And now, the neat Machine compleatly clos'd;
Fitting his Pinions, on a Flight he tries,
And hung self-ballanc'd in the beaten Skies.
Then thus instructs his Child; My Boy, take Care
To wing your Course along the midde Air;
If low, the Surges wet your flagging Plumes,
If high, the Sun the melting Wax consumes:
Steer between both: Nor to the Northern Skies,
Nor South Orion turn your giddy Eyes;
But follow me: Let me before you lay
Rules for the Flight, and mark the pathless Way.
Then teaching, with a fond Concern, his Son,
He took the untry'd Wings, and fix'd 'em on;
But fix'd with trembling Hands; and, as he speaks,
The Tears roul gently down his aged Cheeks.
Then kiss'd, and in his Arms embrac'd him fast,
But knew not this Embrace must be the last.

And