A Hymn to DianaDiana praise, Muse, that in darts delights,Lives still a maid, and had nutritial rightsWith her born-brother, the far-shooting Sun.That doth her all-of-gold-made chariot runIn chase of game, from Meles that aboundsIn black-brow’d bulrushes, and, where her houndsShe first uncouples, joining there her horse,Through Smyrna carried in most fiery courseTo grape-rich Claros; where (ill his rich home,And constant expectation She will come)Sits Phœbus, that the silver bow doth bear,To meet with Phœbe, that doth darts transferAs far as He his shafts. As far then beThy chaste fame shot, O Queen of archery!Sacring my song to every Deity.
Diana praise, Muse, that in darts delights,Lives still a maid, and had nutritial rightsWith her born-brother, the far-shooting Sun.That doth her all-of-gold-made chariot runIn chase of game, from Meles that aboundsIn black-brow’d bulrushes, and, where her houndsShe first uncouples, joining there her horse,Through Smyrna carried in most fiery courseTo grape-rich Claros; where (ill his rich home,And constant expectation She will come)Sits Phœbus, that the silver bow doth bear,To meet with Phœbe, that doth darts transferAs far as He his shafts. As far then beThy chaste fame shot, O Queen of archery!Sacring my song to every Deity.