I am the Muses' friend: I consign all grief
and fear to the violent winds of Cretan seas,
utterly untroubled by what threats beset
some exiled tyrant,
by what king is feared in the far icy north.
O sweet muse who delights in the purest springs,
bind together sun-filled flowers: weave a crown
for my Lamia.
For without you all praise of me is nothing:
so it's all fitting that you and your sisters
should consecrate him with these fresh strings and a
plectrum from Lesbos.
Monadnock Valley Press > Horace