Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/70

 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 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 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.


 * fictions are allow'd, besurebe sure [sic], ye youths,

Your fictions wear at least the air of truths. When Glaucus meets Tydides on the plain, Inflam'd with rage, and reeking from the slain; Some