The gods tell truth. With truth the Tuscan seer
In entrails dark a book of fate may find;
But dreams are folly and with fruitless fear
Address the trembling mind.

Although mankind, against night's dark surprise
With sprinkled meal or salt ward off the ill,
And often turn deaf ear to prophets wise,
While dreams deceive them still;--

May bright Lucina my foreboding mind
From such vain terrors of the night redeem,
For in my soul no deed of guilt I find,
Nor do my lips blaspheme.

Now had the Night upon her ebon wain
Passed o'er the upper sky, and dipped a wheel
In the blue sea: but Sleep, the friend of pain,
Refused my sense to seal.

Sleep stands defeated at the house of care:
And only when from purpled orient skies
Peered Phoebus forth, did tardy slumber bear
Down on my weary eyes.

Then seemed a youth with holy laurel crowned
To fill my door: a wight so wondrous rare
Was not in all the vanished ages found.
No marble half so fair!