Woe to the eyes you dazzle without cloudUntried! For me, they show in yonder faneMy dripping garments, vow'dTo Him who curbs the main.Not I, but Varius:—he, of Homer's broodA tuneful swan, shall bear you on his wing,Your tale of trophies, won by field or flood,Mighty alike to sing.Not mine such themes, Agrippa; no, nor mineTo chant the Wrath that fill'd Pelides' breast,Nor dark Ulysses' wanderings o'er the brine,Nor Pelops' house unblest.Vast were the task, I feeble; inborn shame,And she, who makes the peaceful lyre submit,Forbid me to impair great Caesar's fameAnd yours by my weak wit.