How from his Majesty would Virgil fall,
If Turnus scarce repell'd from Ilion's wall,
Retiring grimly with a tardy pace,
Should then be figur'd by the patient [1] ass,
Whom unregarded troops of boys surround,
While o'er his sides their rattling strokes resound,
Slow he gives way, and crops the springing grain:
Turns on each side, and stops to graze again;
In every point the thing is just, we know,
But then the image is itself too low.
For Turnus sprung from such a glorious race,
Disdains the vile resemblance of an ass.
With better grace the [2] lion you'll apply,
When wrath and courage both forbid to fly;
Tho' not sufficient in himself alone
To fight a multitude oppos'd to one.
Since fictions are allow'd, besure, ye youths,
Your fictions wear at least the air of truths.
When [3] Glaucus meets Tydides on the plain,
Inflam'd with rage, and reeking from the slain;
Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/70
Book II.
POETRY.
59
Some
