On a Race-Horse

SON of the Air, Rival of Winds when high,
Swift Courser, thou that without Wings dost fly,
Quicker than Arrows from a Parthian Bow;
Compar'd to thee, Iove's Thunderbolts are slow.

Men come from Lands remote, thy Race to see,
But when thou'rt pass'd, no Eye can follow thee;
Thine far exceeds the Motion of the Sphears,
Thought cannot equal thee in thy Carrears.

Thy Feet shake th'Earth, whilst Sparks do thee surround
Yet tread not on the Flints, nor touch the Ground:
Thee for his Charrot, Sol would have away,
But that he knows thy Speed would shorten Day.