Would there a wreath that would reprove fires: I hold this clime, Phoebus,
as mine, announces its inscription. The worldly will allow, regarding this
scene: Nature charms me as much as fable. The wreath announces of the fires:
soft weigh my cares on this scale.
At a stroke the figure of Phoebus,
And the figure of Phoebus was with crackling torches.
Had they but dimmed to a maiden light!
They are the interior form of Aetna, certainly!
I have disported with other storms, announces Phoebus, I hate a lair, but I
will be caverned in this wreath and walk beneath its boughs.
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