TO APOLLO.
Horace
What does the poet beg from Phoebus on the dedication of his temple?
What does he pray for, while he pours from the flagon the first
libation? Not the rich crops of fertile Sardinia: not the goodly flocks
of scorched Calabria: not gold, or Indian ivory: not those countries,
which the still river Liris eats away with its silent streams. Let those
to whom fortune has given the Calenian vineyards, prune them with a
hooked knife; and let the wealthy merchant drink out of golden cups the
wines procured by his Syrian merchandize, favored by the gods
themselves, inasmuch as without loss he visits three or four times a
year the Atlantic Sea. Me olives support, me succories and soft mallows.
O thou son of Latona, grant me to enjoy my acquisitions, and to possess
my health, together with an unimpaired understanding, I beseech thee;
and that I may not lead a dishonorable old age, nor one bereft of the
lyre.
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