I’m called on. O Lyre, if I’ve ever played
idle things with you in the shade, that will live,
for a year or more, come and utter a song
now, of Italy:

you were first tuned by Alcaeus of Lesbos,
a man daring in war, yet still, amongst arms,
or after he’d moored his storm-driven boat
on a watery shore,

he sang of the Muses, Bacchus, and Venus
that boy of hers, Cupid, that hangs around her,
and that beautiful Lycus, with his dark eyes
and lovely dark hair.

O tortoiseshell, Phoebus’s glory, welcome
at the feasts of Jupiter, the almighty,
O sweet comfort and balm of our troubles, heal,
if I call you true!