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But if fierce squadrons and the ranks of war Delight thee rather, or on wheels to glide At Pisa, with Alpheus fleeting by, And in the grove of Jupiter urge on The flying chariot, be your steed's first task To face the warrior's armed rage, and brook The trumpet, and long roar of rumbling wheels, And clink of chiming bridles in the stall; Then more and more to love his master's voice Caressing, or loud hand that claps his neck. Ay, thus far let him learn to dare, when first Weaned from his mother, and his mouth at times Yield to the supple halter, even while yet Weak, tottering-limbed, and ignorant of life. But, three years ended, when the fourth arrives, Now let him tarry not to run the ring With rhythmic hoof-beat echoing, and now learn Alternately to curve each bending leg, And be like one that struggleth; then at last Challenge the winds to race him, and at speed Launched through the open, like a reinless thing, Scarce print his footsteps on the surface-sand. As when with power from