And in silver chalices bear around to the feasters the potent child of the vine,
In the cups that Chromius’ horses won him, and sent with the wreaths that for victors they twine
In Phoebus’ honour in holy Sikyon. Zeus, let me chant the fame, I implore thee,
Of Chromius’ prowess by help of the Graces, and outsing every rival in praise
Of his victory, hurling my shaft of song true-aimed to the mark that the Muses place.