In order to restrain this mad desire,
Impossible and rash, and thus to miss
The fall from danger's crag, ah, if for this
My proud thoughts, blind with what they most admire,
Still fail to see what safety would require,
Me as I am, too timid or too bold,
In such confusion that I dare not hold
The reins of that which sets my soul on fire;
What can it serve to see the pictured tale
Of him who, falling with scorched wings, gave name
And celebration to the Icarian seas;
Or that where (poplars now) seven maids bewail
Their Phaëton's past frenzy, and the flame
Whose rage the' Italian waves could scarce appease?