For ever may Myrina's wealth be thine,
Phoebus, and swan-song give thee joy divine,
The Muses do thy will in loyal truth,
Thy Pythian priestess ever say thy sooth,
And may the Palace — glory far above
These lesser joys — still worship thee and love,
If thou wilt ask and Caesar grant thy plea,
The fasces for my Stella; then to thee
Will I, thy debtor, build an altar fair
With rustic greenery, and offer there
A yearling steer bedecked with gilded horn;
Delay no more, he is already born.