ardour fire thy breast, The gods have loved thee, and with arts have bless'd; Neptune and Jove on thee conferr'd the skill Swift round the goal to turn the flying wheel. To guide thy conduct little precept needs; But slow, and past their vigour, are my steeds. Fear not thy rivals, though for swiftness known; Compare those rivals' judgment and thy own: It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize, And to be swift is less than to be wise. 'Tis more by art than force of numerous strokes The dexterous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks; By art the pilot, through the boiling deep And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship; And 'tis the artist wins the glorious course; Not those who trust in chariots and in horse. In vain, unskilful to the goal they strive, And short, or wide, the ungovern'd courser drive: While with sure skill, though with inferior steeds, The knowing racer to his end proceeds; Fix'd on the goal his eye foreruns the course, His hand unerring steers the steady horse, And now contracts, or now extends the rein, Observing still the foremost on the plain. Mark then the goal, 'tis easy to be found; Yon aged trunk, a cubit from the ground; Of some once stately oak the last remains, Or hardy fir, unperish'd with the rains: Inclosed with stones, conspicuous from afar; And round, a circle for the wheeling car. (Some tomb perhaps of old, the dead to grace; Or then, as now, the limit of a race.) Bear close to this, and warily proceed, A little bending to the left-hand steed; But urge the right, and give him all the reins; While thy strict hand his fellow's head restrains, And turns him short; till, doubling as they roll, The wheel's round naves appear to brush the goal. Yet (not to break the car, or lame the horse) Clear of the stony heap direct the course; Lest through incaution failing, thou mayst be A joy to others, a reproach to me. So shalt thou pass the goal, secure of min