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METASTASIO.
Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi, e spine.
FORTUNE! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread,
Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these?
Think'st thou that I thy threatening mien shall dread,
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize?
Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude,
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway!
My constant soul could triumph unsubdued,
Were the wide universe destruction's prey.
Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried?
No! I have long thine utmost power defied,
And drawn fresh energies from every fight.
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel,
With each successive shock the tempered steel
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright.
D 3
