The Fates harmonious to their spindles sing—
"Run on, ye happy ages in your course"—
Dear offspring of the Gods—the time is come,
Start on thy road thou mighty fruit of Jove!
Behold the world that sways her orbed mass,
Lands, ocean wide, and the deep heaven above
All things are gladdened by the coming age;
May my last span of life—this failing breath,
Be yet sufficient to recount thy deeds.
Not Thracian Orpheus, though his mother aid,
Not Linus, whom the fair Apollo helps,
Can conquer me in song; if mighty Pan
With me contend, though Arcady be judge;
Arcady judging, he shall own defeat.
Begin, O! child, to greet her with thy smiles,
Whose ten months' burden caused her weary pain:
Begin, young boy; no nurture has been thine
From parents, nor from gods, nor goddess' love.
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