Covet not thou, O my soul, to live
The Immortals’ life! Let us use as we may
The means that Fate to our hands shall give.
Yet, if Cheiron the wise in his cave this day
Dwelt, and our honey-sweet songs might lay
On his spirit a spell that his will might bend,
I had won on him then some healer to send
To deliver from feverous pains my friend,
Such an one as Asklepius Apollo’s son.
O’er Ionian waters voyaging
Oh then had I reached Arethusa’s spring,
And to Etna’s ruler, mine host, had I gone,