Bki:Xxxii To The Lyre

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!