Child of the Nine, I give the fierce winds to drown
in the Cretan sound all uncertainties and fears:
Do we care if some upland despot
plots to put Tiridates out a
job and sends him packing? Should we, O Pimplea,
care, who cherish but the patter of fountain waters?
Mild Muse, to whom alone all
honor of renown is due,
weave an intricate chaplet for my Lamia's hair;
Sing him a new mode on harps untried, on lutes
capoed to his worth, as surly it is fit
for you and yours to do.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem