  APOLLINEA DEPEREUNTEM DAPHNEN. Stulte Cupido, Quid tua flamma parat? Annos sole sub ipso Accensae pereunt faces? Sed fax nostra potentior istis, Flammas inflammare potest, ipse uritur ignis, Ecce flammarum potens Majore sub flamma gemit. Eheu, quid hoc est? En Apollo Lyra tacente, ni sonet dolores, Coma jacente squallet aeternus decor Oris, en, dominae quo placeat magis, Languido tardum jubar igne promit. Pallente vultu territat aethera. Mundi oculus lacrymis senescit, Et solvit pelago debita, quodque hauserat ignibus, His lacrymis rependit. Noctis adventu properans se latebris recondit, Et opacas tenebrarum colit umbras, Namque suos odit damnans radios nocensque lumen. An lateat tenebris dubitat, an educat diem, Hinc suadet hoc luctus furens, inde repugnat amor. TRANSLATION (full). ON APOLLO PINING FOR DAPHNE. Cupid, foolishest of pets, What woe thy swift-sent flame begets! Surely before the flashing Sun Torches pale to extinction? But our torch is mightier far; It able is 'gainst fire to war, Yea, fire itself to burn and char. The igni-potent in amaze, Lo, groans, his huge heart all a-blaze With keener flame than his own rays. Ah, what is this? Apollo burns, And as distraught in anguish mourns. Lo, see his lyre mute and unstrung, Or only grief-notes from it wrung: Lo, his golden locks neglected, And his radiant face dejected; Beauty eterne distain'd, rejected. The great Sun-god is in love, And seeks in vain his Fair to move: Hence his weird pallor, and those cries That the sky shudd'ring terrifies; Hence the world's day-bringing eye Tears dim, such as in mortals' lie; Hence those showers often falling, The Sea her erst gifts recalling; That mourning he may veil his light— Veil his light, and in shadows deep His great anguish in secret weep. Nor, when vermeil-drapÈd Morning, With her smile the East adorning, Touches with her rosy finger Eyes that 'neath their lashes linger, Seeking to wake the God of Day, That round the world his beams may play, Does he haste at all to rise To his 'fulgent throne i' the skies; But rather would abide within The clouds whereon he rests his chin; Hating his own beams' splendour now, Since Daphne scorns to list his vow: Thus he lingers, and still weighs Whether Day or Night to raise. Raging grief he cannot smother, Says the one; and Love the other. Cupid, tricksiest of pets, What woe thy swift-sent flame begets! Decoration B Decoration C
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