O under Phoebus' ever-peaceful sway,
Away, ye bows, ye arrows fierce, away!
Let Love without a shaft among earth's peoples stray!
A noble weapon! but when Cupid takes
His arrow,--ah! what mortal wound he makes!
Mine is the chief. This whole year have I lain
Wounded to death, yet cherishing the pain,
And counting my delicious anguish gain.
Of Nemesis my song must tell!
Without her name I make no verses well,
My metres limp and all fine words are vain!

Therefore, my darling, since the powers on high
Protect the poets,--O! a little while
On Apollo's servant smile!
So let me sing in words divine
An ode of triumph for young Messaline.
Before his chariot he shall bear
Towns and towers for trophies proud,
And on his brow the laurel-garland wear;
While, with woodland laurel crowned.
His legions follow him acclaiming loud,
"Io triumphe," with far-echoing sound.

Let my Messala of the festive crowd
Receive applause, and joyfully behold
His son's victorious chariot passing by!

Smile, Phoebus there! Thy flowing locks all gold!