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: 
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  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. 
  Even I their headstrong fury scarce restrain,
  When they grow warm and restive to the rein. 
  Let not my son a fatal gift require,
  But, oh! in time recall your rash desire;
  You ask a gift that may your parent tell,
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  Let these my fears your parentage reveal;
  And learn a father from a father’s care: 
  Look on my face; or if my heart lay bare,
  Could you but look, you’d read the father there. 
  Choose out a gift from seas, or earth, or skies,
  For open to your wish all nature lies,
  Only decline this one unequal task,
  For ’tis a mischief, not a gift you ask;
  You ask a real mischief, Phaeton: 
  Nay, hang not thus about my neck, my son: 
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  I grant your wish, and Styx has heard my voice,
  Choose what you will, but make a wiser choice.’ 
     Thus did the god the unwary youth advise;
  But he still longs to travel through the skies,
  When the fond father (for in vain he pleads)
  At length to the Vulcanian chariot leads. 
  A golden axle did the work uphold,
  Gold was the beam, the wheels were orbed with gold. 
  The spokes in rows of silver pleased the sight,
  The seat with party-coloured gems was bright;
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  Apollo shined amid the glare of light. 
  The youth with secret joy the work surveys;
  When now the morn disclosed her purple rays;
  The stars were fled; for Lucifer had chased
  The stars away, and fled himself at last. 
  Soon as the father saw the rosy morn,
  And the moon shining with a blunter horn,
  He bid the nimble Hours without delay
  Bring forth the steeds; the nimble Hours obey: 
  From their full racks the generous steeds retire,
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  Dropping ambrosial foams and snorting fire. 
  Still anxious for his son, the god of day,
  To make him proof against the burning ray,
  His temples with celestial ointment wet,
  Of sovereign virtue to repel the heat;
  Then fixed the beaming circle on his head,
  And fetched a deep, foreboding sigh, and said,
     ’Take this at least, this last advice, my son: 
  Keep a stiff rein, and move but gently on: 
  The coursers of themselves will run too fast,
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  Your art must be to moderate their haste. 
  Drive them not on directly through the skies,
  But where the Zodiac’s winding circle lies,
  Along the midmost zone; but sally forth