I will make wild music on the lyre, not in any contest but for practice by which alone comes the choice flower of skill. As I strike shrill music from the ivory plectrum I will cry out in the Phrygian measure, like the swan of Kaustros singing on the wing in unison with the wind.
Muse, dance also, for the cithara of Phaebus is holy and the laurel tripod.
I sing the love of Phaebus, his useless agony; the girl was chaste, she fled from desire and as she gasped for breath her body changed and grew stiff as a straight-grown tree. And Phaebus who yearned to be lord of the girl plucked the yellow branch to fashion the cithara.
O heart, heart, why are you stupidly wroth with the loveliest of passions? Bring the strong shaft and hurl it to the mark. Loose the bow of Aphrodite, the bow which conquers gods. Imitate Anacreon, the poet famous in song, drink the beakers of wine, the holy wine-cups of speech; let us be consoled by the drink of the gods and flee from the burning star.
Let us shelter from the sun.