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The ivy-wreath encircled round my brows,
The poet's never-fading bright reward,
Crowns with full joy my hopes.
If nor Euterpe sweet her pipe restrains,
Nor copious Polyhymnia disdains
My verse should soft in Lesbian measure flow,
Among the Lyric poets rank my name,
Almost immortal, to the gods I tower.




MERCURI (nam te docilis magistro
Movit Amphion lapides canendo)
Tuque testudo resonare septem
Callida nervis,

(Nec loquax olim neque grata, nunc et Divitum mensis et amica templis) Dic modos, Lyde quibus obstinatas Applicet aures,

Quæ velut latis equa trima campis Ludit exsultim metuitque tangi, Nuptiarum expers et adhuc protervo Cruda marito.

Tu potes tigres comitesque silvas Ducere et rivos celeres morari ; Cessit immanis tibi blandienti Janitor aula




O Mercury! (for by thy teaching skilled, Amphion moved the rocks by music's sound): And thou, oh Lyre! with sweetest concord fillid,

Shed from seven strings around,

(Awhile nor eloquent, nor sought, but now
To rich-spread feasts and sacred temples dear),
Breathe forth sweet strains, to which shall Lydé

Her long-reluctant ear.

The woods and savage beasts by thee are led, Thou know'st the rivers in their course to stay, Couched at thy soothing tones, Hell's porter dread,

Submissive Cerb'rus lay.

Cerberus, quamvis furiale centum
Muniant angues caput ejus, atque
Spiritus teter saniesque manet
Ore trilingui.

Quin et Ixion Tityosque vultu Risit invito; stetit urna paulum Sicca, dum grato Danai puellas Carmine mulces.

Audiat Lyde scelus atque notas Virginum pænas et inane lymphæ Dolium fundo pereuntis imo Seraque fata,

Quæ manent culpas etiam sub Orco. Impiæ, (nam quid potuere majus ?) Impiæ sponsos potuere duro Perdere ferro.

Una de multis face nuptiali
Digna perjurum fuit in parentem
Splendide mendax et in omne virgo
Nobilis ævum,


Though hundred snakes his horrid head enfold,
And endless twining wreathe their slimy scales,
Though from his three-tongued mouth dark gore

is rolld,
And pestilence exhales.

Huge Tityos and Ixion writhing bound,
Smile ʼmidst their pains—the urn's no longer

As Danaus' daughters, lulled by dulcet sound,

Awhile their toil forget.

Let Lydé hear the cruel virgins' deeds,
Their famous doom--the never-brimming urn,
Through whose false chinks the water still recedes-

And Hell's dark tortures learn.

Which wait on crime by Fate's severe behest: (What could they more?) unnatural as they were, Unnatural! 'gainst a youthful husband's breast

The cruel knife to bare.

From all the virgins one alone was found
Worthy the nuptial torch's purest fire;
Sublimely false! through every age renowned,

She failed her perjured sire.

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