A Hymn to HermesHermes, the son of Jove and Maia, sing,O Muse, th’ Arcadian and Cyllenian king,They rich in flocks, he heaven enriching stillIn messages return’d with all his will.Whom glorious Maia, the nymph rich in hair,Mixing with Jove in amorous affair,Brought forth to him, sustaining a retreatFrom all th’ Immortals of the blessed seat,And living in the same dark cave, where JoveInform’d at midnight the effect of love,Unknown to either man or Deity,Sweet sleep once having seized the jealous eyeOf Juno deck’d with wrists of ivory.But when great Jove’s high mind was consummate,The tenth month had in heaven confined the dateOf Maia’s labour, and into the sightShe brought in one birth labours infinite;For then she bore a son, that all tried waysCould turn and wind to wish’d events assays,A fair-tongu’d, but false-hearted, counsellor,Rector of ox-stealers, and for all stealths boreA varied finger; speeder of night’s spies,And guide of all her dreams’ obscurities;Guard of door-guardians; and was born to be,Amongst th’ Immortals, that wing’d DeityThat in an instant should do acts would askThe powers of others an eternal task.Born in the morn, he form’d his lute at noon,At night stole all the oxen of the Sun;And all this in his birth’s first day was done,Which was the fourth of the increasing moon.Because celestial limbs sustain’d his strains,His sacred swath-bands must not be his chains,So, starting up, to Phœbus’ herd he stept,Found straight the high-roof’d cave where they were kept,And th’ entry passing, he th’ invention foundOf making lutes; and did in wealth aboundBy that invention, since he first of allWas author of that engine musical,By this means moved to the ingenious work:Near the cave’s inmost overture did lurkA tortoise, tasting th’ odoriferous grass,Leisurely moving; and this object wasThe motive to Jove’s son (who could convertTo profitable uses all desertThat nature had in any work convey’d)To form the lute; when, smiling, thus he said:“Thou mov’st in me a note of excellent use,Which thy ill form shall never so seduceT’ avert the good to be inform’d by it,In pliant force, of my form-forging wit.”Then the slow tortoise, wrought on by his mind,He thus saluted: “All joy to the kindInstinct of nature in thee, born to beThe spiriter of dances, companyFor feasts, and following banquets, graced and blestFor bearing light to all the interestClaim’d in this instrument! From whence shall springPlay fair and sweet, to which may Graces sing.A pretty painted coat thou putt’st on here,O Tortoise, while thy ill-bred vital sphereConfines thy fashion; but, surprised by me,I’ll bear thee home, where thou shalt ever beA profit to me; and yet nothing moreWill I contemn thee in my merited store.Goods with good parts got worth and honour gave,Left goods and honours every fool may have,And since thou first shall give me means to live,I’ll love thee ever. Virtuous qualities giveTo live at home with them enough content,Where those that want such inward ornamentFly out for outward, their life made their load.Tis best to be at home, harm lurks abroad.And certainly thy virtue shall be known,’Gainst great-ill-causing incantationTo serve as for a lance or amulet.And where, in comfort of thy vital heat,Thou now breath’st but a sound confus’d for song,Expos’d by nature, after death, more strongThou shalt in sounds of art be, and commandSong infinite sweeter.” Thus with either handHe took it up, and instantly took flightBack to his cave with that his home delight.Where (giving to the mountain tortoise ventsOf life and motion) with fit instrumentsForged of bright steel he straight inform’d a lute,Put neck and frets to it, of which a suitHe made of splitted quills, in equal spaceImpos’d upon the neck, and did embraceBoth back and bosom. At whose height (as ginsT’ extend and ease the string) he put in pins.Seven strings of several tunes he then applied,Made of the entrails of a sheep well-dried,And throughly twisted. Next he did provideA case for all, made of an ox’s hide,Out of his counsels to preserve as wellAs to create. And all this action fellInto an instant consequence. His wordAnd work had individual accord,All being as swiftly to perfection broughtAs any worldly man’s most ravish’d thought,Whose mind care cuts in an infinityOf varied parts or passions instantly,Or as the frequent twinklings of an eye.And thus his house-delight given absolute end,He touch’d it, and did every string extend(With an exploratory spirit assay’d)To all the parts that could on it be play’d.It sounded dreadfully; to which he sung,As if from thence the first and true force sprungThat fashions virtue. God in him did sing.His play was likewise an unspeakable thing,Yet, but as an extemporal assay,Of what show it would make being the first way,It tried his hand; or a tumultuous noise,Such as at feasts the first-flower’d spirits of boysPour out in mutual contumelies still,As little squaring with his curious will,Or was as wanton and untaught a store.Of Jove, and Maia that rich shoes still wore,He sung; who suffer’d ill reports before,And foul stains under her fair titles bore.But Hermes sung her nation, and her nameDid iterate ever; all her high-flown fameOf being Jove’s mistress; celebrating allHer train of servants, and collateralSumpture of houses; all her tripods there,And caldrons huge, increasing every year.All which she knew, yet felt her knowledge stungWith her fame’s loss, which (found) she more wish’d sung.But now he in his sacred cradle laidHis lute so absolute, and straight convey’dHimself up to a watch-tow’r forth his house,Rich, and divinely odoriferous,A lofty wile at work in his conceit,Thirsting the practice of his empire’s height.And where impostors rule (since sable nightMust serve their deeds) he did his deeds their right.For now the never-resting Sun was turn’dFor th’ under earth, and in the ocean burn’dHis coach and coursers; when th’ ingenious spyPieria’s shady hill had in his eye,Where the immortal oxen of the GodsIn air’s flood solaced their select abodes,And earth’s sweet green flow’r, that was never shorn,Fed ever down. And these the witty-born,Argicides, set serious spy upon,Severing from all the rest, and setting goneFull fifty of the violent bellowers.Which driving through the sands, he did reverse(His birth’s-craft straight rememb’ring) all their hoves,And them transpos’d in opposite removes,The fore behind set, the behind before,T’ employ the eyes of such as should explore.And he himself, as sly-pac’d, cast awayHis sandals on the sea sands; past displayAnd unexcogitable thoughts in actPutting, to shun of his stol’n steps the tract,Mixing both tamrisk and like-tamrisk spraysIn a most rare confusion, to raiseHis footsteps up from earth. Of which sprays he(His armful gathering fresh from off the tree)Made for his sandals ties, both leaves and tiesHolding together; and then fear’d no eyesThat could affect his feet’s discoveries.The tamrisk boughs he gather’d, making wayBack from Pieria, but as to conveyProvision in them for his journey fit,It being long and, therefore, needing it.An old man, now at labour near the fieldOf green Onchestus, knew the verdant yieldOf his fair armful; whom th’ ingenious sonOf Maia, therefore, salutationDid thus begin to: “Ho, old man! that nowArt crooked grown with making plants to grow,Thy nerves will far be spent, when these boughs shallTo these their leaves confer me fruit and all.But see not thou whatever thou dost see,Nor hear though hear, but all as touching meConceal, since nought it can endamage thee.”This, and no more, he said, and on drave stillHis broad-brow’d oxen. Many a shady hill,And many an echoing valley, many a fieldPleasant and wishful, did his passage yieldTheir safe transcension. But now the divineAnd black-brow’d Night, his mistress, did declineExceeding swiftly; Day’s most early lightFast hasting to her first point, to exciteWorldlings to work; and in her watch-tow’r shoneKing Pallas-Megamedes’ seed (the Moon);When through th’ Alphæan flood Jove’s powerful sonPhœbus-Apollo’s ample-foreheaded herd(Whose necks the lab’ring yoke had never sphered)Drave swiftly on; and then into a stall(Hilly, yet pass’d to through an humble valeAnd hollow dells, in a most lovely mead)He gather’d all, and them divinely fedWith odorous cypress, and the ravishing treeThat makes his eaters lose the memoryOf name and country. Then he brought withalMuch wood, whose sight into his search let fallThe art of making fire; which thus he tried:He took a branch of laurel, amplifiedPast others both in beauty and in size,Yet lay next hand, rubb’d it, and straight did riseA warm fume from it; steel being that did raise(As agent) the attenuated baysTo that hot vapour. So that Hermes foundBoth fire first, and of it the seed close boundIn other substances; and then the seedHe multiplied, of sere-wood making feedThe apt heat of it, in a pile combinedLaid in a low pit, that in flames straight shined,And cast a sparkling crack up to the sky,All the dry parts so fervent were, and highIn their combustion. And how long the forceOf glorious Vulcan kept the fire in course,So long was he in dragging from their stallTwo of the crook-haunch’d herd, that roar’d withal,And raged for fear, t’ approach the sacred fire,To which did all his dreadful pow’rs aspire.When, blust’ring forth their breath, he on the soilCast both at length, though with a world of toil,For long he was in getting them to groundAfter their through-thrust and most mortal wound.But work to work he join’d, the flesh and cut,Cover’d with fat, and, on treen broches put,In pieces roasted; but in th’ intestinesThe black blood, and the honorary chines,Together with the carcases, lay there,Cast on the cold earth, as no Deities’ cheer;The hides upon a rugged rock he spread.And thus were these now all in pieces shred,And undistinguish’d from earth’s common herd,Though born for long date, and to heaven endear’d,And now must ever live in dead event.But Hermes, here hence having his content,Cared for no more, but drew to places evenThe fat-works, that, of force, must have for heavenTheir capital ends, though stol’n, and therefore wereIn twelve parts cut, for twelve choice Deities’ cheer,By this devotion. To all which he gaveTheir several honours, and did wish to haveHis equal part thereof, as free and wellAs th’ other Deities; but the fatty smellAfflicted him, though he Immortal were,Playing mortal parts, and being like mortals hereYet his proud mind nothing the more obey’dFor being a God himself, and his own aidHaving to cause his due, and though in heartHe highly wish’d it; but the weaker partSubdued the stronger, and went on in ill.Even heavenly pow’r had rather have his willThan have his right; and will’s the worst of all,When but in least sort it is criminal,One taint being author of a number still.And thus, resolved to leave his hallow’d hill,First both the fat parts and the fleshy allTaking away, at the steep-entried stallHe laid all, all the feet and heads entire,And all the sere-wood, making clear with fire.And now, he leaving there then all things done,And finish’d in their fit perfection,The coals put out, and their black ashes thrownFrom all discovery by the lovely lightThe cheerful moon cast, shining all the night,He straight assumed a novel voice’s note,And in the whirl-pit-eating flood afloatHe set his sandals. When now, once againThe that-morn-born Cyllenius did attainHis home’s divine height; all the far-stretch’d wayNo one bless’d God encount’ring his assay,Nor mortal man; nor any dog durst spendHis born-to-bark mouth at him; till in th’ endHe reach’d his cave, and at the gate went inCrooked, and wrapt into a fold so thinThat no eye could discover his repair,But as a darkness of th’ autumnal air.When, going on fore-right, he straight arrivedAt his rich fane; his soft feet quite deprivedOf all least noise of one that trod the earth,They trod so swift to reach his room of birth.Where, in his swath-bands he his shoulders wrapt,And (like an infant, newly having scap’tThe teeming straits) as in the palms he layOf his loved nurse. Yet instantly would play(Freeing his right hand) with his bearing clothAbout his knees wrapt, and straight (loosing bothHis right and left hand) with his left he caughtHis much-loved lute. His mother yet was taughtHis wanton wiles, nor could a God’s wit lieHid from a Goddess, who did therefore tryHis answer thus: “Why, thou made-all-of-sleight,And whence arriv’st thou in this rest of night?Improvident impudent! In my conceitThou rather shouldst be getting forth thy gate,With all flight fit for thy endanger’d state,(In merit of th’ inevitable bandsTo be impos’d by vex’d Latona’s hands,Justly incens’d for her Apollo’s harms)Than lie thus wrapt, as ready for her arms,To take thee up and kiss thee. Would to heaven,In cross of that high grace, thou hadst been givenUp to perdition, ere poor mortals bearThose black banes, that thy Father ThundererHath planted thee of purpose to conferOn them and Deities!” He returned reply:“As master of the feats of policy,Mother, why aim you thus amiss at me,As if I were a son that infancyCould keep from all the skill that age can teach,Or had in cheating but a childish reach,And of a mother’s mandates fear’d the breach?I mount that art at first, that will be bestWhen all times consummate their cunningest,Able to counsel now myself and thee,In all things best, to all eternity.We cannot live like Gods here without gifts,No, nor without corruption and shifts,And, much less, without eating; as we mustIn keeping thy rules, and in being just,Of which we cannot undergo the loads.’Tis better here to imitate the Gods,And wine or wench out all time’s periods,To that end growing rich in ready heaps,Stored with revenues, being in corn-field reapsOf infinite acres, than to live enclosedIn caves, to all earth’s sweetest air exposed.I as much honour hold as Phœbus does;And if my Father please not to disposePossessions to me, I myself will seeIf I can force them in; for I can bePrince of all thieves. And, if Latona’s sonMake after my stealth indignation,I’ll have a scape as well as he a search,And overtake him with a greater lurch;For I can post to Pythos, and break throughHis huge house there, where harbours wealth enough,Most precious tripods, caldrons, steel, and gold,Garments rich wrought, and full of liberal fold.All which will I at pleasure own, and thouShalt see all, wilt thou but thy sight bestow.”Thus changed great words the Goat-hide-wearer’s son,And Maia of majestic fashion.And now the air-begot Aurora roseFrom out the Ocean great-in-ebbs-and-flows,When, at the never-shorn pure-and-fair grove(Onchestus) consecrated to the loveOf round-and-long-neck’d Neptune, Phœbus foundA man whom heavy years had press’d half round,And yet at work in plashing of a fenceAbout a vineyard, that had residenceHard by the highway; whom Latona’s sonMade it not strange, but first did question,And first saluted: “Ho you! aged sire,That here are hewing from the vine the briar,For certain oxen I come here t’ inquireOut of Pieria; females all, and rear’dAll with horns wreath’d, unlike the common herd;A coal-black bull fed by them all alone;And all observ’d, for preservation,Through all their foody and delicious fenWith four fierce mastiffs, like one-minded men.These left their dogs and bull (which I admire)And, when was near set day’s eternal fire,From their fierce guardians, from their delicate fare,Made clear departure. To me then declare,O old man, long since born, if thy grave rayHath any man seen making steathful wayWith all those oxen.” Th’ old man made reply:“’Tis hard, O friend, to render readilyAccount of all that may invade mine eye,For many a traveller this highway treads,Some in much ills search, some in noble threads,Leading their lives out; but I this young day,Even from her first point, have made good displayOf all men passing this abundant hillPlanted with vines, and no such stealthful illHer light hath shown me; but last evening, late,I saw a thing that show’d of childish stateTo my old lights, and seem’d as he pursuedA herd of oxen with brave heads endued,Yet but an infant, and retain’d a rod;Who wearily both this and that way trod,His head still backwards turn’d.” This th’ old man spake;Which he well thought upon, and swiftly brakeInto his pursuit with abundant wing,That strook but one plain, ere he knew the thingThat was the thief to be th’ impostor born;Whom Jove yet with his son’s name did adorn.In study and with ardour then the King(Jove’s dazzling son) placed his exploring wingOn sacred Pylos, for his forced herd,His ample shoulders in a cloud enspher’dOf fiery crimson. Straight the steps he foundOf his stol’n herd, and said: “Strange sights confoundMy apprehensive powers, for here I seeThe tracks of oxen, but aversivelyConverted towards the Pierian hills,As treading to their mead of daffodils:But nor mine eye men’s feet nor women’s draws,Nor hoary wolves’, nor bears’, nor lions’, paws,Nor thick-neck’d bulls, they show. But he that doesThese monstrous deeds, with never so swift shoesHath pass’d from that hour hither, but from henceHis foul course may meet fouler consequence.”With this took Phœbus wing; and Hermes still,For all his threats, secure lay in his hillWall’d with a wood; and more, a rock, beside,Where a retreat ran, deeply multipliedIn blinding shadows, and where th’ endless BrideBore to Saturnius his ingenious son;An odour, worth a heart’s desire, being thrownAlong the heaven-sweet hill, on whose herb fedRich flocks of sheep, that bow not where they treadTheir horny pasterns. There the Light of men(Jove’s son, Apollo) straight descended thenThe marble pavement, in that gloomy den.On whom when Jove and Maia’s son set eye,Wroth for his oxen, on then, instantly,His odorous swath-bands flew; in which as closeTh’ impostor lay, as in the cool reposeOf cast-on ashes hearths of burning coalsLie in the woods hid, under the controlsOf skilful colliers; even so close did lieInscrutable Hermes in Apollo’s eye,Contracting his great Godhead to a smallAnd infant likeness, feet, hands, head, and all.And as a hunter hath been often view’d,From chase retired, with both his hands embruedIn his game’s blood, that doth for water callTo cleanse his hands, and to provoke withalDelightsome sleep, new-wash’d and laid to rest;So now lay Hermes in the close-compress’dChace of his oxen, his new-found-out luteBeneath his arm held, as if no pursuitBut that prise, and the virtue of his play,His heart affected. But to Phœbus layHis close heart open; and he likewise knewThe brave hill-nymph there, and her dear son, new-Born, and as well wrapt in his wiles as weeds.All the close shrouds too, for his rapinous deeds,In all the cave he knew; and with his keyHe open’d three of them, in which there laySilver and gold-heaps, nectar infinite store,And dear ambrosia; and of weeds she wore,Pure white and purple, a rich wardrobe shined.Fit for the bless’d states of Pow’rs so divined.All which discover’d, thus to MercuryHe offer’d conference: “Infant! You that lieWrapt so in swath-bands, instantly unfoldIn what conceal’d retreats of yours you holdMy oxen stol’n by you; or straight we shallJar, as beseems not Pow’rs Celestial.For I will take and hurl thee to the deepsOf dismal Tartarus, where ill Death keepsHis gloomy and inextricable fates,And to no eye that light illuminatesMother nor Father shall return thee free,But under earth shall sorrow fetter thee,And few repute thee their superior.”On him replied craft’s subtlest Counsellor:“What cruel speech hath past Latona’s care!Seeks he his stol‘n wild-cows where Deities are?I have nor seen nor heard, nor can reportFrom others’ mouths one word of their resortTo any stranger. Nor will I, to gainA base reward, a false relation feign.Nor would I, could I tell. Resemble IAn ox-thief, or a man? EspeciallyA man of such a courage, such a forceAs to that labour goes, that violent course?No infant’s work is that. My pow’rs aspireTo sleep, and quenching of my hunger’s fireWith mother’s milk, and, ’gainst cold shades, to armWith cradle-cloths my shoulders, and baths warm,That no man may conceive the war you threatCan spring in cause from my so peaceful heat.And, even amongst th’ Immortals it would bearEvent of absolute miracle, to hearA new-born infant’s forces should transcendThe limits of his doors; much less contendWith untam’d oxen. This speech nothing seemsTo savour the decorum of the beamsCast round about the air Apollo breaks,Where his divine mind her intention speaks.I brake but yesterday the blessed womb,My feet are tender, and the common tombOf men (the Earth) lies sharp beneath their tread.But, if you please, even by my Father’s headI’ll take the great oath, that nor I protestMyself to author on your interestAny such usurpation, nor have ISeen any other that feloniouslyHath forced your oxen. Strange thing! What are thoseOxen of yours? Or what are oxen? KnowsMy rude mind, think you? My ears only touchAt their renown, and hear that there are such.”This speech he pass’d; and, ever as he spake,Beams from the hair about his eyelids brake,His eyebrows up and down cast, and his eyeEvery way look’d askance and carelessly,And he into a lofty whistling fell,As if he idle thought Apollo’s spell.Apollo, gently smiling, made reply:“O thou impostor, whose thoughts ever lieIn labour with deceit! For certain, IRetain opinion, that thou (even thus soon)Hast ransack’d many a house, and not in oneNight’s-work alone, nor in one country neither,Hast been besieging house and man together,Rigging and rifling all ways, and no noiseMade with thy soft feet, where it all destroys.Soft, therefore, well, and tender, thou may’st callThe feet that thy stealths go and fly withal,For many a field-bred herdsman (unheard still)Hast thou made drown the caverns of the hill,Where his retreats lie, with his helpless tears,When any flesh-stealth thy desire endears,And thou encount’rest either flocks of sheep,Or herds of oxen! Up then! Do not sleepThy last nap in thy cradle, but come down,Companion of black night, and, for this crownOf thy young rapines, bear from all the stateAnd style of Prince Thief, into endless date.”This said, he took the infant in his arms,And with him the remembrance of his harms,This presage utt’ring, lifting him aloft:“Be evermore the miserably-softSlave of the belly, pursuivant of all,And author of all mischiefs capital.”He scorn’d his prophecy so he sneezed in’s faceMost forcibly; which hearing, his embraceHe loathed and hurl’d him ’gainst the ground; yet stillTook seat before him, though, with all the illHe bore by him, he would have left full fainThat hewer of his heart so into twain.Yet salv’d all thus: “Come, you so-swaddled thing!Issue of Maia, and the Thunder’s King!Be confident, I shall hereafter findMy broad-brow’d oxen, my prophetic mindSo far from blaming this thy course, that IForesee thee in it to posterityThe guide of all men, always, to their ends.”This spoken, Hermes from the earth ascends,Starting aloft, and as in study went,Wrapping himself in his integument,And thus ask’d Phœbus: “Whither force you me,Far-shot, and far most powerful Deity?I know, for all your feigning, you’re still wrothAbout your oxen, and suspect my troth.O Jupiter! I wish the general raceOf all earth’s oxen rooted from her face.I steal your oxen! I again professThat neither I have stol’n them, nor can guessWho else should steal them. What strange beasts are theseYour so-loved oxen? I must say, to pleaseYour humour thus far, that even my few hoursHave heard their fame. But be the sentence yoursOf the debate betwixt us, or to Jove(For more indifferency) the cause remove.”Thus when the solitude-affecting God,And the Latonian seed, had laid abroadAll things betwixt them; though not yet agreed,Yet, might I speak, Apollo did proceedNothing unjustly, to charge MercuryWith stealing of the cows he does deny.But his profession was, with filed speech,And craft’s fair compliments, to overreachAll, and even Phœbus. Who because he knewHis trade of subtlety, he still at viewHunted his foe through all the sandy wayUp to Olympus. Nor would let him strayFrom out his sight, but kept behind him still.And now they reach’d the odorif’rous hillOf high Olympus, to their Father Jove,To arbitrate the cause in which they strove.Where, before both, talents of justice werePropos’d for him whom Jove should sentence clear,In cause of their contention. And nowAbout Olympus, ever crown’d with snow,The rumour of their controversy flew.All the Incorruptible, to their view,On Heaven’s steep mountain made return’d repair.Hermes, and He that light hurls through the air,Before the Thund’rer’s knees stood; who begunTo question thus far his illustrious Son:“Phœbus! To what end bring’st thou captive hereHim in whom my mind puts delights so dear?This new-born infant, that the place suppliesOf Herald yet to all the Deities?This serious business, you may witness, drawsThe Deities’ whole Court to discuss the cause.”Phœbus replied: “And not unworthy isThe cause of all the Court of Deities,For, you shall hear, it comprehends the weightOf devastation, and the very heightOf spoil and rapine, even of Deities’ rights.Yet you, as if myself loved such delights,Use words that wound my heart. I bring you hereAn infant, that, even now, admits no peerIn rapes and robb’ries. Finding out his place,After my measure of an infinite space,In the Cyllenian mountain, such a oneIn all the art of opprobration,As not in all the Deities I have seen,Nor in th’ oblivion-mark’d whole race of men.In night he drave my oxen from their leas,Along the lofty roar-resounding seas,From out the road-way quite; the steps of themSo quite transpos’d, as would amaze the beamOf any mind’s eye, being so infinite muchInvolv’d in doubt, as show’d a deified touchWent to the work’s performance; all the way,Through which my cross-hoved cows he did convey,Had dust so darkly-hard to search, and heSo past all measure wrapt in subtilty.For, nor with feet, nor hands, he form’d his steps,In passing through the dry way’s sandy heaps,But used another counsel to keep hidHis monstrous tracts, that show’d as one had slidOn oak or other boughs, that swept out stillThe footsteps of his oxen, and did fillTheir prints up ever, to the daffodill(Or dainty-feeding meadow) as they trod,Driven by this cautelous and infant God.A mortal man, yet, saw him driving onHis prey to Pylos. Which when he had done,And got his pass sign’d, with a sacred fire,In peace, and freely (though to his desire,Not to the Gods, he offer’d part of theseMy ravish’d oxen) he retires, and lies,Like to the gloomy night, in his dim den,All hid in darkness; and in clouts againWrapp’d him so closely, that the sharp-seen eyeOf your own eagle could not see him lie.For with his hands the air he rarified(This way, and that moved) till bright gleams did glideAbout his being, that, if any eyeShould dare the darkness, light appos’d so nighMight blind it quite with her antipathy.Which wile he wove, in curious care t’ illudeTh’ extreme of any eye that could intrude.On which relying, he outrageously(When I accus’d him) trebled his reply:‘I did not see, I did not hear, nor IWill tell at all, that any other stoleYour broad-brow’d beeves. Which an impostor’s soulWould soon have done, and any author fainOf purpose only a reward to gain.’And thus he colour’d truth in every lie.”This said, Apollo sat; and MercuryThe Gods’ Commander pleased with this reply:“Father! I’ll tell thee truth (for I am true,And far from art to lie): He did pursueEven to my cave his oxen this self day,The sun new-raising his illustrious ray;But brought with him none of the Bliss-endued,Nor any ocular witness, to concludeHis bare assertion; but his own commandLaid on with strong and necessary hand,To show his oxen; using threats to castMy poor and infant powers into the vastOf ghastly Tartarus; because he bearsOf strength-sustaining youth the flaming years,And I but yesterday produced to light.By which it fell into his own free sight,That I in no similitude appear’dOf power to be the forcer of a herd.And credit me, O Father, since the graceOf that name, in your style, you please to place,I drave not home his oxen, no, nor prestPast mine own threshold; for ’tis manifest,I reverence with my soul the Sun, and allThe knowing dwellers in this heavenly Hall,Love you, observe the least; and ’tis most clearIn your own knowledge, that my merits bearNo least guilt of his blame. To all which IDare add heaven’s great oath, boldly swearing byAll these so well-built entries of the Blest.And therefore when I saw myself so prestWith his reproaches, I confess I burn’dIn my pure gall, and harsh reply return’d.Add your aid to your younger then, and freeThe scruple fixt in Phœbus’ jealousy.”This said he wink’d upon his Sire; and stillHis swathbands held beneath his arm; no willDiscern’d in him to hide, but have them shown.Jove laugh’d aloud at his ingenious Son,Quitting himself with art, so likely wrought,As show’d in his heart not a rapinous thought;Commanding both to bear atoned mindsAnd seek out th’ oxen; in which search he bindsHermes to play the guide, and show the Sun(All grudge exil’d) the shrowd to which he wonHis fair-eyed oxen; then his forehead bow’dFor sign it must be so; and Hermes show’dHis free obedience; so soon he inclinedTo his persuasion and command his mind.Now, then, Jove’s jarring Sons no longer stood,But sandy Pylos and th’ Alphæan floodReach’d instantly, and made as quick a fallOn those rich-feeding fields and lofty stallWhere Phœbus’ oxen Hermes safely kept,Driven in by night. When suddenly he steptUp to the stony cave, and into lightDrave forth the oxen. Phœbus at first sightKnew them the same, and saw apart dispreadUpon a high-rais’d rock the hides new fleadOf th’ oxen sacrific’d. Then Phœbus said:“O thou in crafty counsels undisplaid!How couldst thou cut the throats, and cast to earth,Two such huge oxen, being so young a birth,And a mere infant? I admire thy force,And will, behind thy back. But this swift courseOf growing into strength thou hadst not needContinue any long date, O thou SeedOf honour’d Maia!” Hermes (to show howHe did those deeds) did forthwith cut and bowStrong osiers in soft folds, and strappled straightOne of his hugest oxen, all his weightLay’ng prostrate on the earth at Phœbus’ feet,All his four cloven hoves eas’ly made to greetEach other upwards, all together brought.In all which bands yet all the beast’s powers wrought,To rise, and stand; when all the herd aboutThe mighty Hermes rush’d in, to help outTheir fellow from his fetters. Phœbus’ viewOf all this up to admiration drewEven his high forces; and stern looks he threwAt Hermes for his herd’s wrong, and the placeTo which he had retir’d them, being in graceAnd fruitful riches of it so entire;All which set all his force on envious fire.All whose heat flew out of his eyes in flames,Which fain he would have hid, to hide the shames,Of his ill-govern’d passions. But with easeHermes could calm them, and his humours please.Still at his pleasure, were he ne’er so greatIn force and fortitude, and high in heat,In all which he his lute took, and assay’dA song upon him, and so strangely play’d,That from his hand a ravishing horror flew.Which Phœbus into laughter turn’d, and grewPleasant past measure; tunes so artful clearStrook even his heart-strings, and his mind made hear.His lute so powerful was in forcing love,As his hand rul’d it, that from him it droveAll fear of Phœbus; yet he gave him stillThe upper hand; and, to advance his skillTo utmost miracle, he play’d sometimesSingle awhile; in which, when all the climesOf rapture he had reach’d, to make the SunAdmire enough, O then his voice would runSuch points upon his play, and did so move,They took Apollo prisoner to his love.And now the deathless Gods and deathful EarthHe sung, beginning at their either’s birthTo full extent of all their empery.And, first, the honour to Mnemosyne,The Muses’ mother, of all Goddess statesHe gave; even forced to’t by the equal fates.And then (as it did in priority fallOf age and birth) he celebrated all.And with such elegance and order sung(His lute still touch’d, to stick more off his tongue)That Phœbus’ heart with infinite love he eat.Who, therefore, thus did his deserts entreat:“Master of sacrifice! Chief soul of feast!Patient of all pains! Artizan so blest,That all things thou canst do in anyone!Worth fifty oxen is th’ inventionOf this one lute. We both shall now, I hope,In firm peace work to all our wishes’ scope.Inform me (thou that every way canst wind,And turn to act, all wishes of thy mind)Together with thy birth came all thy skill?Or did some God, or God-like man, instillThis heavenly song to thee? Methink I hearA new voice, such as never yet came nearThe breast of any, either man or God,Till in thee it had prime and period.What art, what Muse that med’cine can produceFor cares most cureless, what inveterate useOr practice of a virtue so profuse(Which three do all the contribution keepThat Joy or Love confers, or pleasing Sleep.)Taught thee the sovereign facture of them all?I of the Muses am the capitalConsort, or follower; and to these belongThe grace of dance, all worthy ways of song,And ever-flourishing verse, the delicate setAnd sound of instruments. But never yetDid anything so much affect my mindWith joy and care to compass, as this kindOf song and play, that for the spritely feastOf flourishing assemblies are the bestAnd aptest works that ever worth gave act.My powers with admiration stand distract,To hear with what a hand to make in loveThou rul’st thy lute. And (though thy yong’st hours moveAt full art in old councils) here I vow(Even by this cornel dart I use to throw)To thee, and to thy mother, I’ll make theeAmongst the Gods of glorious degree,Guide of men’s ways and theirs; and will impartTo thee the mighty imperatory art,Bestow rich gifts on thee, and in the endNever deceive thee.” Hermes (as a friendThat wrought on all advantage, and made gainHis capital object) thus did entertainPhœbus Apollo: “Do thy dignities,Far-working God and circularly wise,Demand my virtues? Without envy IWill teach thee to ascend my faculty.And this day thou shalt reach it; finding me,In acts and counsels, all ways kind to thee,As one that all things knows, and first tak’st seatAmongst th’ Immortals, being good and great,And therefore to Jove’s love mak’st free access,Even out of his accomplisht holiness.Great gifts he likewise gives thee; who, fame says,Hast won thy greatness by his will, his ways,By him know’st all the powers prophetical,O thou far-worker, and the fates of all!Yea, and I know thee rich, yet apt to learn,And even thy wish dost but discern and earn.And since thy soul so burns to know the waySo play and sing as I do, sing, and play;Play, and perfection in thy play employ;And be thy care, to learn things good, thy joy.Take thou my lute (my love) and give thou meThe glory of so great a faculty.This sweet-tuned consort, held but in thy hand,Sing, and perfection in thy song command.For thou already hast the way to speakFairly and elegantly, and to breakAll eloquence into thy utter’d mind.One gift from heaven found may another find.Use then securely this thy gift, and goTo feasts and dances that enamour so,And to that covetous sport of getting glory,That day nor night will suffer to be sory.Whoever does but say in verse, sings still;Which he that can of any other skillIs capable, so he be taught by artAnd wisdom, and can speak at every partThings pleasing to an understanding mind;And such a one that seeks this lute shall find.Him still it teaches eas’ly, though he playsSoft voluntaries only, and assaysAs wanton as the sports of children are,And (even when he aspires to singularIn all the mast’ries he shall play or sing)Finds the whole work but an unhappy thing,He, I say, sure shall of this lute be king.But he, whoever rudely sets uponOf this lute’s skill th’ inquest or questionNever so ardently and angrily,Without the aptness and abilityOf art, and nature fitting, never shallAspire to this, but utter trivialAnd idle accents, though sung ne’er so loud,And never so commended of the crowd.But thee I know, O eminent Son of Jove,The fiery learner of whatever LoveHath sharpen’d thy affections to achieve,And thee I give this lute. Let us now liveFeeding upon the hill and horse-fed earthOur never-handled oxen; whose dear birthTheir females, fellow’d with their males, let flowIn store enough hereafter; nor must you(However cunning-hearted your wits are)Boil in your gall a grudge too circular.”Thus gave he him his lute, which he embrac’d,And gave again a goad, whose bright head castBeams like the light forth; leaving to his careHis oxen’s keeping. Which, with joyful fare,He took on him. The lute Apollo tookInto his left hand, and aloft he shookDelightsome sounds up, to which God did sing.Then were the oxen to their endless springTurn’d; and Jove’s two illustrous Offsprings flewUp to Olympus where it ever snew,Delighted with their lute’s sound all the way.Whom Jove much joy’d to see, and endless stayGave to their knot of friendship. From which dateHermes gave Phœbus an eternal stateIn his affection, whose sure pledge and signHis lute was, and the doctrine so divineJointly conferr’d on him; which well might beTrue symbol of his love’s simplicity.On th’ other part, Apollo in his friendForm’d th’ art of wisdom, to the binding endOf his vow’d friendship; and (for further meed)Gave him the far-heard fistulary reed.For all these forms of friendship, Phœbus yetFear’d that both form and substance were not metIn Mercury’s intentions; and, in plain,Said (since he saw him born to craft and gain,And that Jove’s will had him the honour doneTo change at his will the possessionOf others’ goods) he fear’d his breach of vowsIn stealing both his lute and cunning bows,And therefore wish’d that what the Gods affectHimself would witness, and to his requestHis head bow, swearing by th’ impetuous floodOf Styx that of his whole possessions not a goodHe would diminish, but therein maintainThe full content in which his mind did reign.And then did Maia’s son his forehead bow,Making, by all that he desired, his vowNever to prey more upon anythingIn just possession of the far-shot King,Nor ever to come near a house of his.Latonian Phœbus bow’d his brow to this,With his like promise, saying: “Not anyoneOf all the Gods, nor any man, that sonIs to Saturnius, is more dear to me,More trusted, nor more honour’d is than thee.Which yet with greater gifts of DeityIn future I’ll confirm, and give thy stateA rod that riches shall accumulate,Nor leave the bearer thrall to death, or fate,Or any sickness. All of gold it is,Three-leaved, and full of all felicities.And, this shall be thy guardian, this shall giveThe Gods to thee in all the truth they live,And, finally, shall this the tut’ress beOf all the words and works informing meFrom Jove’s high counsels, making known to theeAll my instructions. But to prophesy,Of best of Jove’s beloved, and that high skillWhich to obtain lies burning in thy will,Nor thee, nor any God, will Fate let learn.Only Jove’s mind hath insight to discernWhat that importeth; yet am I allow’d(My known faith trusted, and my forehead bow’d,Our great oath taken, to resolve to noneOf all th’ Immortals the restrictionOf that deep knowledge) of it all the mind.Since then it sits in such fast bounds confin’d,O brother, when the golden rod is heldIn thy strong hand, seek not to have reveal’dAny sure fate that Jove will have conceal’d.For no man shall, by know’ng, prevent his fate;And therefore will I hold in my free stateThe pow’r to hurt and help what man I will,Of all the greatest, or least touch’d with ill,That walk within the circle of mine eye,In all the tribes and sexes it shall try.Yet, truly, any man shall have his willTo reap the fruits of my prophetic skill,Whoever seeks it by the voice or wingOf birds, born truly such events to sing.Nor will I falsely, nor with fallacies,Infringe the truth on which his faith relies,But he that truths in chattering plumes would find,Quite opposite to them that prompt my mind,And learn by natural forgers of vain liesThe more-than-ever-certain Deities,That man shall sea-ways tread that leave no tracts,And false or no guide find for all his facts.And yet will I his gifts accept as wellAs his to whom the simple truth I tell.One other thing to thee I’ll yet make known,Maia’s exceedingly renowned son,And Jove’s, and of the Gods’ whole sessionThe most ingenious genius: There dwellWithin a crooked cranny, in a dellBeneath Parnassus, certain Sisters born,Call’d Parcæ, whom extreme swift wings adorn,Their number three, that have upon their headsWhite barley-flour still sprinkled, and are maids;And these are schoolmistresses of things to come,Without the gift of prophecy. Of whom(Being but a boy, and keeping oxen near)I learn’d their skill, though my great Father wereCareless of it, or them. These flying from homeTo others’ roofs, and fed with honeycomb,Command all skill, and (being enraged then)Will freely tell the truths of things to men.But if they give them not that Gods’ sweet meat,They then are apt to utter their deceit,And lead men from their way. And these will IGive thee hereafter, when their scrutinyAnd truth thou hast both made and learn’d; and thenPlease thyself with them, and the race of men(Wilt thou know any) with thy skill endear,Who will, be sure, afford it greedy ear,And hear it often if it prove sincere.Take these, O Maia’s son, and in thy careBe horse and oxen, all such men as arePatient of labour, lions, white-tooth’d boars,Mastiffs, and flocks that feed the flow’ry shores,And every four-foot beast; all which shall standIn awe of thy high imperatory hand.Be thou to Dis, too, sole Ambassador,Who, though all gifts and bounties he abhor,On thee he will bestow a wealthy one.”Thus king Apollo honour’d Maia’s sonWith all the rites of friendship; all whose loveHad imposition from the will of Jove.And thus with Gods and mortals Hermes lived,Who truly help’d but few, but all deceivedWith an undifferencing respect, and madeVain words and false persuasions his trade.His deeds were all associates of the night,In which his close wrongs cared for no man’s right.So all salutes to Hermes that are due,Of whom, and all Gods, shall my Muse sing true.THE END OF THE HYMN TO HERMES.
Hermes, the son of Jove and Maia, sing,O Muse, th’ Arcadian and Cyllenian king,They rich in flocks, he heaven enriching stillIn messages return’d with all his will.Whom glorious Maia, the nymph rich in hair,Mixing with Jove in amorous affair,Brought forth to him, sustaining a retreatFrom all th’ Immortals of the blessed seat,And living in the same dark cave, where JoveInform’d at midnight the effect of love,Unknown to either man or Deity,Sweet sleep once having seized the jealous eyeOf Juno deck’d with wrists of ivory.But when great Jove’s high mind was consummate,The tenth month had in heaven confined the dateOf Maia’s labour, and into the sightShe brought in one birth labours infinite;For then she bore a son, that all tried waysCould turn and wind to wish’d events assays,A fair-tongu’d, but false-hearted, counsellor,Rector of ox-stealers, and for all stealths boreA varied finger; speeder of night’s spies,And guide of all her dreams’ obscurities;Guard of door-guardians; and was born to be,Amongst th’ Immortals, that wing’d DeityThat in an instant should do acts would askThe powers of others an eternal task.Born in the morn, he form’d his lute at noon,At night stole all the oxen of the Sun;And all this in his birth’s first day was done,Which was the fourth of the increasing moon.Because celestial limbs sustain’d his strains,His sacred swath-bands must not be his chains,So, starting up, to Phœbus’ herd he stept,Found straight the high-roof’d cave where they were kept,And th’ entry passing, he th’ invention foundOf making lutes; and did in wealth aboundBy that invention, since he first of allWas author of that engine musical,By this means moved to the ingenious work:Near the cave’s inmost overture did lurkA tortoise, tasting th’ odoriferous grass,Leisurely moving; and this object wasThe motive to Jove’s son (who could convertTo profitable uses all desertThat nature had in any work convey’d)To form the lute; when, smiling, thus he said:“Thou mov’st in me a note of excellent use,Which thy ill form shall never so seduceT’ avert the good to be inform’d by it,In pliant force, of my form-forging wit.”Then the slow tortoise, wrought on by his mind,He thus saluted: “All joy to the kindInstinct of nature in thee, born to beThe spiriter of dances, companyFor feasts, and following banquets, graced and blestFor bearing light to all the interestClaim’d in this instrument! From whence shall springPlay fair and sweet, to which may Graces sing.A pretty painted coat thou putt’st on here,O Tortoise, while thy ill-bred vital sphereConfines thy fashion; but, surprised by me,I’ll bear thee home, where thou shalt ever beA profit to me; and yet nothing moreWill I contemn thee in my merited store.Goods with good parts got worth and honour gave,Left goods and honours every fool may have,And since thou first shall give me means to live,I’ll love thee ever. Virtuous qualities giveTo live at home with them enough content,Where those that want such inward ornamentFly out for outward, their life made their load.Tis best to be at home, harm lurks abroad.And certainly thy virtue shall be known,’Gainst great-ill-causing incantationTo serve as for a lance or amulet.And where, in comfort of thy vital heat,Thou now breath’st but a sound confus’d for song,Expos’d by nature, after death, more strongThou shalt in sounds of art be, and commandSong infinite sweeter.” Thus with either handHe took it up, and instantly took flightBack to his cave with that his home delight.Where (giving to the mountain tortoise ventsOf life and motion) with fit instrumentsForged of bright steel he straight inform’d a lute,Put neck and frets to it, of which a suitHe made of splitted quills, in equal spaceImpos’d upon the neck, and did embraceBoth back and bosom. At whose height (as ginsT’ extend and ease the string) he put in pins.Seven strings of several tunes he then applied,Made of the entrails of a sheep well-dried,And throughly twisted. Next he did provideA case for all, made of an ox’s hide,Out of his counsels to preserve as wellAs to create. And all this action fellInto an instant consequence. His wordAnd work had individual accord,All being as swiftly to perfection broughtAs any worldly man’s most ravish’d thought,Whose mind care cuts in an infinityOf varied parts or passions instantly,Or as the frequent twinklings of an eye.And thus his house-delight given absolute end,He touch’d it, and did every string extend(With an exploratory spirit assay’d)To all the parts that could on it be play’d.It sounded dreadfully; to which he sung,As if from thence the first and true force sprungThat fashions virtue. God in him did sing.His play was likewise an unspeakable thing,Yet, but as an extemporal assay,Of what show it would make being the first way,It tried his hand; or a tumultuous noise,Such as at feasts the first-flower’d spirits of boysPour out in mutual contumelies still,As little squaring with his curious will,Or was as wanton and untaught a store.Of Jove, and Maia that rich shoes still wore,He sung; who suffer’d ill reports before,And foul stains under her fair titles bore.But Hermes sung her nation, and her nameDid iterate ever; all her high-flown fameOf being Jove’s mistress; celebrating allHer train of servants, and collateralSumpture of houses; all her tripods there,And caldrons huge, increasing every year.All which she knew, yet felt her knowledge stungWith her fame’s loss, which (found) she more wish’d sung.But now he in his sacred cradle laidHis lute so absolute, and straight convey’dHimself up to a watch-tow’r forth his house,Rich, and divinely odoriferous,A lofty wile at work in his conceit,Thirsting the practice of his empire’s height.And where impostors rule (since sable nightMust serve their deeds) he did his deeds their right.For now the never-resting Sun was turn’dFor th’ under earth, and in the ocean burn’dHis coach and coursers; when th’ ingenious spyPieria’s shady hill had in his eye,Where the immortal oxen of the GodsIn air’s flood solaced their select abodes,And earth’s sweet green flow’r, that was never shorn,Fed ever down. And these the witty-born,Argicides, set serious spy upon,Severing from all the rest, and setting goneFull fifty of the violent bellowers.Which driving through the sands, he did reverse(His birth’s-craft straight rememb’ring) all their hoves,And them transpos’d in opposite removes,The fore behind set, the behind before,T’ employ the eyes of such as should explore.And he himself, as sly-pac’d, cast awayHis sandals on the sea sands; past displayAnd unexcogitable thoughts in actPutting, to shun of his stol’n steps the tract,Mixing both tamrisk and like-tamrisk spraysIn a most rare confusion, to raiseHis footsteps up from earth. Of which sprays he(His armful gathering fresh from off the tree)Made for his sandals ties, both leaves and tiesHolding together; and then fear’d no eyesThat could affect his feet’s discoveries.The tamrisk boughs he gather’d, making wayBack from Pieria, but as to conveyProvision in them for his journey fit,It being long and, therefore, needing it.An old man, now at labour near the fieldOf green Onchestus, knew the verdant yieldOf his fair armful; whom th’ ingenious sonOf Maia, therefore, salutationDid thus begin to: “Ho, old man! that nowArt crooked grown with making plants to grow,Thy nerves will far be spent, when these boughs shallTo these their leaves confer me fruit and all.But see not thou whatever thou dost see,Nor hear though hear, but all as touching meConceal, since nought it can endamage thee.”This, and no more, he said, and on drave stillHis broad-brow’d oxen. Many a shady hill,And many an echoing valley, many a fieldPleasant and wishful, did his passage yieldTheir safe transcension. But now the divineAnd black-brow’d Night, his mistress, did declineExceeding swiftly; Day’s most early lightFast hasting to her first point, to exciteWorldlings to work; and in her watch-tow’r shoneKing Pallas-Megamedes’ seed (the Moon);When through th’ Alphæan flood Jove’s powerful sonPhœbus-Apollo’s ample-foreheaded herd(Whose necks the lab’ring yoke had never sphered)Drave swiftly on; and then into a stall(Hilly, yet pass’d to through an humble valeAnd hollow dells, in a most lovely mead)He gather’d all, and them divinely fedWith odorous cypress, and the ravishing treeThat makes his eaters lose the memoryOf name and country. Then he brought withalMuch wood, whose sight into his search let fallThe art of making fire; which thus he tried:He took a branch of laurel, amplifiedPast others both in beauty and in size,Yet lay next hand, rubb’d it, and straight did riseA warm fume from it; steel being that did raise(As agent) the attenuated baysTo that hot vapour. So that Hermes foundBoth fire first, and of it the seed close boundIn other substances; and then the seedHe multiplied, of sere-wood making feedThe apt heat of it, in a pile combinedLaid in a low pit, that in flames straight shined,And cast a sparkling crack up to the sky,All the dry parts so fervent were, and highIn their combustion. And how long the forceOf glorious Vulcan kept the fire in course,So long was he in dragging from their stallTwo of the crook-haunch’d herd, that roar’d withal,And raged for fear, t’ approach the sacred fire,To which did all his dreadful pow’rs aspire.When, blust’ring forth their breath, he on the soilCast both at length, though with a world of toil,For long he was in getting them to groundAfter their through-thrust and most mortal wound.But work to work he join’d, the flesh and cut,Cover’d with fat, and, on treen broches put,In pieces roasted; but in th’ intestinesThe black blood, and the honorary chines,Together with the carcases, lay there,Cast on the cold earth, as no Deities’ cheer;The hides upon a rugged rock he spread.And thus were these now all in pieces shred,And undistinguish’d from earth’s common herd,Though born for long date, and to heaven endear’d,And now must ever live in dead event.But Hermes, here hence having his content,Cared for no more, but drew to places evenThe fat-works, that, of force, must have for heavenTheir capital ends, though stol’n, and therefore wereIn twelve parts cut, for twelve choice Deities’ cheer,By this devotion. To all which he gaveTheir several honours, and did wish to haveHis equal part thereof, as free and wellAs th’ other Deities; but the fatty smellAfflicted him, though he Immortal were,Playing mortal parts, and being like mortals hereYet his proud mind nothing the more obey’dFor being a God himself, and his own aidHaving to cause his due, and though in heartHe highly wish’d it; but the weaker partSubdued the stronger, and went on in ill.Even heavenly pow’r had rather have his willThan have his right; and will’s the worst of all,When but in least sort it is criminal,One taint being author of a number still.And thus, resolved to leave his hallow’d hill,First both the fat parts and the fleshy allTaking away, at the steep-entried stallHe laid all, all the feet and heads entire,And all the sere-wood, making clear with fire.And now, he leaving there then all things done,And finish’d in their fit perfection,The coals put out, and their black ashes thrownFrom all discovery by the lovely lightThe cheerful moon cast, shining all the night,He straight assumed a novel voice’s note,And in the whirl-pit-eating flood afloatHe set his sandals. When now, once againThe that-morn-born Cyllenius did attainHis home’s divine height; all the far-stretch’d wayNo one bless’d God encount’ring his assay,Nor mortal man; nor any dog durst spendHis born-to-bark mouth at him; till in th’ endHe reach’d his cave, and at the gate went inCrooked, and wrapt into a fold so thinThat no eye could discover his repair,But as a darkness of th’ autumnal air.When, going on fore-right, he straight arrivedAt his rich fane; his soft feet quite deprivedOf all least noise of one that trod the earth,They trod so swift to reach his room of birth.Where, in his swath-bands he his shoulders wrapt,And (like an infant, newly having scap’tThe teeming straits) as in the palms he layOf his loved nurse. Yet instantly would play(Freeing his right hand) with his bearing clothAbout his knees wrapt, and straight (loosing bothHis right and left hand) with his left he caughtHis much-loved lute. His mother yet was taughtHis wanton wiles, nor could a God’s wit lieHid from a Goddess, who did therefore tryHis answer thus: “Why, thou made-all-of-sleight,And whence arriv’st thou in this rest of night?Improvident impudent! In my conceitThou rather shouldst be getting forth thy gate,With all flight fit for thy endanger’d state,(In merit of th’ inevitable bandsTo be impos’d by vex’d Latona’s hands,Justly incens’d for her Apollo’s harms)Than lie thus wrapt, as ready for her arms,To take thee up and kiss thee. Would to heaven,In cross of that high grace, thou hadst been givenUp to perdition, ere poor mortals bearThose black banes, that thy Father ThundererHath planted thee of purpose to conferOn them and Deities!” He returned reply:“As master of the feats of policy,Mother, why aim you thus amiss at me,As if I were a son that infancyCould keep from all the skill that age can teach,Or had in cheating but a childish reach,And of a mother’s mandates fear’d the breach?I mount that art at first, that will be bestWhen all times consummate their cunningest,Able to counsel now myself and thee,In all things best, to all eternity.We cannot live like Gods here without gifts,No, nor without corruption and shifts,And, much less, without eating; as we mustIn keeping thy rules, and in being just,Of which we cannot undergo the loads.’Tis better here to imitate the Gods,And wine or wench out all time’s periods,To that end growing rich in ready heaps,Stored with revenues, being in corn-field reapsOf infinite acres, than to live enclosedIn caves, to all earth’s sweetest air exposed.I as much honour hold as Phœbus does;And if my Father please not to disposePossessions to me, I myself will seeIf I can force them in; for I can bePrince of all thieves. And, if Latona’s sonMake after my stealth indignation,I’ll have a scape as well as he a search,And overtake him with a greater lurch;For I can post to Pythos, and break throughHis huge house there, where harbours wealth enough,Most precious tripods, caldrons, steel, and gold,Garments rich wrought, and full of liberal fold.All which will I at pleasure own, and thouShalt see all, wilt thou but thy sight bestow.”Thus changed great words the Goat-hide-wearer’s son,And Maia of majestic fashion.And now the air-begot Aurora roseFrom out the Ocean great-in-ebbs-and-flows,When, at the never-shorn pure-and-fair grove(Onchestus) consecrated to the loveOf round-and-long-neck’d Neptune, Phœbus foundA man whom heavy years had press’d half round,And yet at work in plashing of a fenceAbout a vineyard, that had residenceHard by the highway; whom Latona’s sonMade it not strange, but first did question,And first saluted: “Ho you! aged sire,That here are hewing from the vine the briar,For certain oxen I come here t’ inquireOut of Pieria; females all, and rear’dAll with horns wreath’d, unlike the common herd;A coal-black bull fed by them all alone;And all observ’d, for preservation,Through all their foody and delicious fenWith four fierce mastiffs, like one-minded men.These left their dogs and bull (which I admire)And, when was near set day’s eternal fire,From their fierce guardians, from their delicate fare,Made clear departure. To me then declare,O old man, long since born, if thy grave rayHath any man seen making steathful wayWith all those oxen.” Th’ old man made reply:“’Tis hard, O friend, to render readilyAccount of all that may invade mine eye,For many a traveller this highway treads,Some in much ills search, some in noble threads,Leading their lives out; but I this young day,Even from her first point, have made good displayOf all men passing this abundant hillPlanted with vines, and no such stealthful illHer light hath shown me; but last evening, late,I saw a thing that show’d of childish stateTo my old lights, and seem’d as he pursuedA herd of oxen with brave heads endued,Yet but an infant, and retain’d a rod;Who wearily both this and that way trod,His head still backwards turn’d.” This th’ old man spake;Which he well thought upon, and swiftly brakeInto his pursuit with abundant wing,That strook but one plain, ere he knew the thingThat was the thief to be th’ impostor born;Whom Jove yet with his son’s name did adorn.In study and with ardour then the King(Jove’s dazzling son) placed his exploring wingOn sacred Pylos, for his forced herd,His ample shoulders in a cloud enspher’dOf fiery crimson. Straight the steps he foundOf his stol’n herd, and said: “Strange sights confoundMy apprehensive powers, for here I seeThe tracks of oxen, but aversivelyConverted towards the Pierian hills,As treading to their mead of daffodils:But nor mine eye men’s feet nor women’s draws,Nor hoary wolves’, nor bears’, nor lions’, paws,Nor thick-neck’d bulls, they show. But he that doesThese monstrous deeds, with never so swift shoesHath pass’d from that hour hither, but from henceHis foul course may meet fouler consequence.”With this took Phœbus wing; and Hermes still,For all his threats, secure lay in his hillWall’d with a wood; and more, a rock, beside,Where a retreat ran, deeply multipliedIn blinding shadows, and where th’ endless BrideBore to Saturnius his ingenious son;An odour, worth a heart’s desire, being thrownAlong the heaven-sweet hill, on whose herb fedRich flocks of sheep, that bow not where they treadTheir horny pasterns. There the Light of men(Jove’s son, Apollo) straight descended thenThe marble pavement, in that gloomy den.On whom when Jove and Maia’s son set eye,Wroth for his oxen, on then, instantly,His odorous swath-bands flew; in which as closeTh’ impostor lay, as in the cool reposeOf cast-on ashes hearths of burning coalsLie in the woods hid, under the controlsOf skilful colliers; even so close did lieInscrutable Hermes in Apollo’s eye,Contracting his great Godhead to a smallAnd infant likeness, feet, hands, head, and all.And as a hunter hath been often view’d,From chase retired, with both his hands embruedIn his game’s blood, that doth for water callTo cleanse his hands, and to provoke withalDelightsome sleep, new-wash’d and laid to rest;So now lay Hermes in the close-compress’dChace of his oxen, his new-found-out luteBeneath his arm held, as if no pursuitBut that prise, and the virtue of his play,His heart affected. But to Phœbus layHis close heart open; and he likewise knewThe brave hill-nymph there, and her dear son, new-Born, and as well wrapt in his wiles as weeds.All the close shrouds too, for his rapinous deeds,In all the cave he knew; and with his keyHe open’d three of them, in which there laySilver and gold-heaps, nectar infinite store,And dear ambrosia; and of weeds she wore,Pure white and purple, a rich wardrobe shined.Fit for the bless’d states of Pow’rs so divined.All which discover’d, thus to MercuryHe offer’d conference: “Infant! You that lieWrapt so in swath-bands, instantly unfoldIn what conceal’d retreats of yours you holdMy oxen stol’n by you; or straight we shallJar, as beseems not Pow’rs Celestial.For I will take and hurl thee to the deepsOf dismal Tartarus, where ill Death keepsHis gloomy and inextricable fates,And to no eye that light illuminatesMother nor Father shall return thee free,But under earth shall sorrow fetter thee,And few repute thee their superior.”On him replied craft’s subtlest Counsellor:“What cruel speech hath past Latona’s care!Seeks he his stol‘n wild-cows where Deities are?I have nor seen nor heard, nor can reportFrom others’ mouths one word of their resortTo any stranger. Nor will I, to gainA base reward, a false relation feign.Nor would I, could I tell. Resemble IAn ox-thief, or a man? EspeciallyA man of such a courage, such a forceAs to that labour goes, that violent course?No infant’s work is that. My pow’rs aspireTo sleep, and quenching of my hunger’s fireWith mother’s milk, and, ’gainst cold shades, to armWith cradle-cloths my shoulders, and baths warm,That no man may conceive the war you threatCan spring in cause from my so peaceful heat.And, even amongst th’ Immortals it would bearEvent of absolute miracle, to hearA new-born infant’s forces should transcendThe limits of his doors; much less contendWith untam’d oxen. This speech nothing seemsTo savour the decorum of the beamsCast round about the air Apollo breaks,Where his divine mind her intention speaks.I brake but yesterday the blessed womb,My feet are tender, and the common tombOf men (the Earth) lies sharp beneath their tread.But, if you please, even by my Father’s headI’ll take the great oath, that nor I protestMyself to author on your interestAny such usurpation, nor have ISeen any other that feloniouslyHath forced your oxen. Strange thing! What are thoseOxen of yours? Or what are oxen? KnowsMy rude mind, think you? My ears only touchAt their renown, and hear that there are such.”This speech he pass’d; and, ever as he spake,Beams from the hair about his eyelids brake,His eyebrows up and down cast, and his eyeEvery way look’d askance and carelessly,And he into a lofty whistling fell,As if he idle thought Apollo’s spell.Apollo, gently smiling, made reply:“O thou impostor, whose thoughts ever lieIn labour with deceit! For certain, IRetain opinion, that thou (even thus soon)Hast ransack’d many a house, and not in oneNight’s-work alone, nor in one country neither,Hast been besieging house and man together,Rigging and rifling all ways, and no noiseMade with thy soft feet, where it all destroys.Soft, therefore, well, and tender, thou may’st callThe feet that thy stealths go and fly withal,For many a field-bred herdsman (unheard still)Hast thou made drown the caverns of the hill,Where his retreats lie, with his helpless tears,When any flesh-stealth thy desire endears,And thou encount’rest either flocks of sheep,Or herds of oxen! Up then! Do not sleepThy last nap in thy cradle, but come down,Companion of black night, and, for this crownOf thy young rapines, bear from all the stateAnd style of Prince Thief, into endless date.”This said, he took the infant in his arms,And with him the remembrance of his harms,This presage utt’ring, lifting him aloft:“Be evermore the miserably-softSlave of the belly, pursuivant of all,And author of all mischiefs capital.”He scorn’d his prophecy so he sneezed in’s faceMost forcibly; which hearing, his embraceHe loathed and hurl’d him ’gainst the ground; yet stillTook seat before him, though, with all the illHe bore by him, he would have left full fainThat hewer of his heart so into twain.Yet salv’d all thus: “Come, you so-swaddled thing!Issue of Maia, and the Thunder’s King!Be confident, I shall hereafter findMy broad-brow’d oxen, my prophetic mindSo far from blaming this thy course, that IForesee thee in it to posterityThe guide of all men, always, to their ends.”This spoken, Hermes from the earth ascends,Starting aloft, and as in study went,Wrapping himself in his integument,And thus ask’d Phœbus: “Whither force you me,Far-shot, and far most powerful Deity?I know, for all your feigning, you’re still wrothAbout your oxen, and suspect my troth.O Jupiter! I wish the general raceOf all earth’s oxen rooted from her face.I steal your oxen! I again professThat neither I have stol’n them, nor can guessWho else should steal them. What strange beasts are theseYour so-loved oxen? I must say, to pleaseYour humour thus far, that even my few hoursHave heard their fame. But be the sentence yoursOf the debate betwixt us, or to Jove(For more indifferency) the cause remove.”Thus when the solitude-affecting God,And the Latonian seed, had laid abroadAll things betwixt them; though not yet agreed,Yet, might I speak, Apollo did proceedNothing unjustly, to charge MercuryWith stealing of the cows he does deny.But his profession was, with filed speech,And craft’s fair compliments, to overreachAll, and even Phœbus. Who because he knewHis trade of subtlety, he still at viewHunted his foe through all the sandy wayUp to Olympus. Nor would let him strayFrom out his sight, but kept behind him still.And now they reach’d the odorif’rous hillOf high Olympus, to their Father Jove,To arbitrate the cause in which they strove.Where, before both, talents of justice werePropos’d for him whom Jove should sentence clear,In cause of their contention. And nowAbout Olympus, ever crown’d with snow,The rumour of their controversy flew.All the Incorruptible, to their view,On Heaven’s steep mountain made return’d repair.Hermes, and He that light hurls through the air,Before the Thund’rer’s knees stood; who begunTo question thus far his illustrious Son:“Phœbus! To what end bring’st thou captive hereHim in whom my mind puts delights so dear?This new-born infant, that the place suppliesOf Herald yet to all the Deities?This serious business, you may witness, drawsThe Deities’ whole Court to discuss the cause.”Phœbus replied: “And not unworthy isThe cause of all the Court of Deities,For, you shall hear, it comprehends the weightOf devastation, and the very heightOf spoil and rapine, even of Deities’ rights.Yet you, as if myself loved such delights,Use words that wound my heart. I bring you hereAn infant, that, even now, admits no peerIn rapes and robb’ries. Finding out his place,After my measure of an infinite space,In the Cyllenian mountain, such a oneIn all the art of opprobration,As not in all the Deities I have seen,Nor in th’ oblivion-mark’d whole race of men.In night he drave my oxen from their leas,Along the lofty roar-resounding seas,From out the road-way quite; the steps of themSo quite transpos’d, as would amaze the beamOf any mind’s eye, being so infinite muchInvolv’d in doubt, as show’d a deified touchWent to the work’s performance; all the way,Through which my cross-hoved cows he did convey,Had dust so darkly-hard to search, and heSo past all measure wrapt in subtilty.For, nor with feet, nor hands, he form’d his steps,In passing through the dry way’s sandy heaps,But used another counsel to keep hidHis monstrous tracts, that show’d as one had slidOn oak or other boughs, that swept out stillThe footsteps of his oxen, and did fillTheir prints up ever, to the daffodill(Or dainty-feeding meadow) as they trod,Driven by this cautelous and infant God.A mortal man, yet, saw him driving onHis prey to Pylos. Which when he had done,And got his pass sign’d, with a sacred fire,In peace, and freely (though to his desire,Not to the Gods, he offer’d part of theseMy ravish’d oxen) he retires, and lies,Like to the gloomy night, in his dim den,All hid in darkness; and in clouts againWrapp’d him so closely, that the sharp-seen eyeOf your own eagle could not see him lie.For with his hands the air he rarified(This way, and that moved) till bright gleams did glideAbout his being, that, if any eyeShould dare the darkness, light appos’d so nighMight blind it quite with her antipathy.Which wile he wove, in curious care t’ illudeTh’ extreme of any eye that could intrude.On which relying, he outrageously(When I accus’d him) trebled his reply:‘I did not see, I did not hear, nor IWill tell at all, that any other stoleYour broad-brow’d beeves. Which an impostor’s soulWould soon have done, and any author fainOf purpose only a reward to gain.’And thus he colour’d truth in every lie.”This said, Apollo sat; and MercuryThe Gods’ Commander pleased with this reply:“Father! I’ll tell thee truth (for I am true,And far from art to lie): He did pursueEven to my cave his oxen this self day,The sun new-raising his illustrious ray;But brought with him none of the Bliss-endued,Nor any ocular witness, to concludeHis bare assertion; but his own commandLaid on with strong and necessary hand,To show his oxen; using threats to castMy poor and infant powers into the vastOf ghastly Tartarus; because he bearsOf strength-sustaining youth the flaming years,And I but yesterday produced to light.By which it fell into his own free sight,That I in no similitude appear’dOf power to be the forcer of a herd.And credit me, O Father, since the graceOf that name, in your style, you please to place,I drave not home his oxen, no, nor prestPast mine own threshold; for ’tis manifest,I reverence with my soul the Sun, and allThe knowing dwellers in this heavenly Hall,Love you, observe the least; and ’tis most clearIn your own knowledge, that my merits bearNo least guilt of his blame. To all which IDare add heaven’s great oath, boldly swearing byAll these so well-built entries of the Blest.And therefore when I saw myself so prestWith his reproaches, I confess I burn’dIn my pure gall, and harsh reply return’d.Add your aid to your younger then, and freeThe scruple fixt in Phœbus’ jealousy.”This said he wink’d upon his Sire; and stillHis swathbands held beneath his arm; no willDiscern’d in him to hide, but have them shown.Jove laugh’d aloud at his ingenious Son,Quitting himself with art, so likely wrought,As show’d in his heart not a rapinous thought;Commanding both to bear atoned mindsAnd seek out th’ oxen; in which search he bindsHermes to play the guide, and show the Sun(All grudge exil’d) the shrowd to which he wonHis fair-eyed oxen; then his forehead bow’dFor sign it must be so; and Hermes show’dHis free obedience; so soon he inclinedTo his persuasion and command his mind.Now, then, Jove’s jarring Sons no longer stood,But sandy Pylos and th’ Alphæan floodReach’d instantly, and made as quick a fallOn those rich-feeding fields and lofty stallWhere Phœbus’ oxen Hermes safely kept,Driven in by night. When suddenly he steptUp to the stony cave, and into lightDrave forth the oxen. Phœbus at first sightKnew them the same, and saw apart dispreadUpon a high-rais’d rock the hides new fleadOf th’ oxen sacrific’d. Then Phœbus said:“O thou in crafty counsels undisplaid!How couldst thou cut the throats, and cast to earth,Two such huge oxen, being so young a birth,And a mere infant? I admire thy force,And will, behind thy back. But this swift courseOf growing into strength thou hadst not needContinue any long date, O thou SeedOf honour’d Maia!” Hermes (to show howHe did those deeds) did forthwith cut and bowStrong osiers in soft folds, and strappled straightOne of his hugest oxen, all his weightLay’ng prostrate on the earth at Phœbus’ feet,All his four cloven hoves eas’ly made to greetEach other upwards, all together brought.In all which bands yet all the beast’s powers wrought,To rise, and stand; when all the herd aboutThe mighty Hermes rush’d in, to help outTheir fellow from his fetters. Phœbus’ viewOf all this up to admiration drewEven his high forces; and stern looks he threwAt Hermes for his herd’s wrong, and the placeTo which he had retir’d them, being in graceAnd fruitful riches of it so entire;All which set all his force on envious fire.All whose heat flew out of his eyes in flames,Which fain he would have hid, to hide the shames,Of his ill-govern’d passions. But with easeHermes could calm them, and his humours please.Still at his pleasure, were he ne’er so greatIn force and fortitude, and high in heat,In all which he his lute took, and assay’dA song upon him, and so strangely play’d,That from his hand a ravishing horror flew.Which Phœbus into laughter turn’d, and grewPleasant past measure; tunes so artful clearStrook even his heart-strings, and his mind made hear.His lute so powerful was in forcing love,As his hand rul’d it, that from him it droveAll fear of Phœbus; yet he gave him stillThe upper hand; and, to advance his skillTo utmost miracle, he play’d sometimesSingle awhile; in which, when all the climesOf rapture he had reach’d, to make the SunAdmire enough, O then his voice would runSuch points upon his play, and did so move,They took Apollo prisoner to his love.And now the deathless Gods and deathful EarthHe sung, beginning at their either’s birthTo full extent of all their empery.And, first, the honour to Mnemosyne,The Muses’ mother, of all Goddess statesHe gave; even forced to’t by the equal fates.And then (as it did in priority fallOf age and birth) he celebrated all.And with such elegance and order sung(His lute still touch’d, to stick more off his tongue)That Phœbus’ heart with infinite love he eat.Who, therefore, thus did his deserts entreat:“Master of sacrifice! Chief soul of feast!Patient of all pains! Artizan so blest,That all things thou canst do in anyone!Worth fifty oxen is th’ inventionOf this one lute. We both shall now, I hope,In firm peace work to all our wishes’ scope.Inform me (thou that every way canst wind,And turn to act, all wishes of thy mind)Together with thy birth came all thy skill?Or did some God, or God-like man, instillThis heavenly song to thee? Methink I hearA new voice, such as never yet came nearThe breast of any, either man or God,Till in thee it had prime and period.What art, what Muse that med’cine can produceFor cares most cureless, what inveterate useOr practice of a virtue so profuse(Which three do all the contribution keepThat Joy or Love confers, or pleasing Sleep.)Taught thee the sovereign facture of them all?I of the Muses am the capitalConsort, or follower; and to these belongThe grace of dance, all worthy ways of song,And ever-flourishing verse, the delicate setAnd sound of instruments. But never yetDid anything so much affect my mindWith joy and care to compass, as this kindOf song and play, that for the spritely feastOf flourishing assemblies are the bestAnd aptest works that ever worth gave act.My powers with admiration stand distract,To hear with what a hand to make in loveThou rul’st thy lute. And (though thy yong’st hours moveAt full art in old councils) here I vow(Even by this cornel dart I use to throw)To thee, and to thy mother, I’ll make theeAmongst the Gods of glorious degree,Guide of men’s ways and theirs; and will impartTo thee the mighty imperatory art,Bestow rich gifts on thee, and in the endNever deceive thee.” Hermes (as a friendThat wrought on all advantage, and made gainHis capital object) thus did entertainPhœbus Apollo: “Do thy dignities,Far-working God and circularly wise,Demand my virtues? Without envy IWill teach thee to ascend my faculty.And this day thou shalt reach it; finding me,In acts and counsels, all ways kind to thee,As one that all things knows, and first tak’st seatAmongst th’ Immortals, being good and great,And therefore to Jove’s love mak’st free access,Even out of his accomplisht holiness.Great gifts he likewise gives thee; who, fame says,Hast won thy greatness by his will, his ways,By him know’st all the powers prophetical,O thou far-worker, and the fates of all!Yea, and I know thee rich, yet apt to learn,And even thy wish dost but discern and earn.And since thy soul so burns to know the waySo play and sing as I do, sing, and play;Play, and perfection in thy play employ;And be thy care, to learn things good, thy joy.Take thou my lute (my love) and give thou meThe glory of so great a faculty.This sweet-tuned consort, held but in thy hand,Sing, and perfection in thy song command.For thou already hast the way to speakFairly and elegantly, and to breakAll eloquence into thy utter’d mind.One gift from heaven found may another find.Use then securely this thy gift, and goTo feasts and dances that enamour so,And to that covetous sport of getting glory,That day nor night will suffer to be sory.Whoever does but say in verse, sings still;Which he that can of any other skillIs capable, so he be taught by artAnd wisdom, and can speak at every partThings pleasing to an understanding mind;And such a one that seeks this lute shall find.Him still it teaches eas’ly, though he playsSoft voluntaries only, and assaysAs wanton as the sports of children are,And (even when he aspires to singularIn all the mast’ries he shall play or sing)Finds the whole work but an unhappy thing,He, I say, sure shall of this lute be king.But he, whoever rudely sets uponOf this lute’s skill th’ inquest or questionNever so ardently and angrily,Without the aptness and abilityOf art, and nature fitting, never shallAspire to this, but utter trivialAnd idle accents, though sung ne’er so loud,And never so commended of the crowd.But thee I know, O eminent Son of Jove,The fiery learner of whatever LoveHath sharpen’d thy affections to achieve,And thee I give this lute. Let us now liveFeeding upon the hill and horse-fed earthOur never-handled oxen; whose dear birthTheir females, fellow’d with their males, let flowIn store enough hereafter; nor must you(However cunning-hearted your wits are)Boil in your gall a grudge too circular.”Thus gave he him his lute, which he embrac’d,And gave again a goad, whose bright head castBeams like the light forth; leaving to his careHis oxen’s keeping. Which, with joyful fare,He took on him. The lute Apollo tookInto his left hand, and aloft he shookDelightsome sounds up, to which God did sing.Then were the oxen to their endless springTurn’d; and Jove’s two illustrous Offsprings flewUp to Olympus where it ever snew,Delighted with their lute’s sound all the way.Whom Jove much joy’d to see, and endless stayGave to their knot of friendship. From which dateHermes gave Phœbus an eternal stateIn his affection, whose sure pledge and signHis lute was, and the doctrine so divineJointly conferr’d on him; which well might beTrue symbol of his love’s simplicity.On th’ other part, Apollo in his friendForm’d th’ art of wisdom, to the binding endOf his vow’d friendship; and (for further meed)Gave him the far-heard fistulary reed.For all these forms of friendship, Phœbus yetFear’d that both form and substance were not metIn Mercury’s intentions; and, in plain,Said (since he saw him born to craft and gain,And that Jove’s will had him the honour doneTo change at his will the possessionOf others’ goods) he fear’d his breach of vowsIn stealing both his lute and cunning bows,And therefore wish’d that what the Gods affectHimself would witness, and to his requestHis head bow, swearing by th’ impetuous floodOf Styx that of his whole possessions not a goodHe would diminish, but therein maintainThe full content in which his mind did reign.And then did Maia’s son his forehead bow,Making, by all that he desired, his vowNever to prey more upon anythingIn just possession of the far-shot King,Nor ever to come near a house of his.Latonian Phœbus bow’d his brow to this,With his like promise, saying: “Not anyoneOf all the Gods, nor any man, that sonIs to Saturnius, is more dear to me,More trusted, nor more honour’d is than thee.Which yet with greater gifts of DeityIn future I’ll confirm, and give thy stateA rod that riches shall accumulate,Nor leave the bearer thrall to death, or fate,Or any sickness. All of gold it is,Three-leaved, and full of all felicities.And, this shall be thy guardian, this shall giveThe Gods to thee in all the truth they live,And, finally, shall this the tut’ress beOf all the words and works informing meFrom Jove’s high counsels, making known to theeAll my instructions. But to prophesy,Of best of Jove’s beloved, and that high skillWhich to obtain lies burning in thy will,Nor thee, nor any God, will Fate let learn.Only Jove’s mind hath insight to discernWhat that importeth; yet am I allow’d(My known faith trusted, and my forehead bow’d,Our great oath taken, to resolve to noneOf all th’ Immortals the restrictionOf that deep knowledge) of it all the mind.Since then it sits in such fast bounds confin’d,O brother, when the golden rod is heldIn thy strong hand, seek not to have reveal’dAny sure fate that Jove will have conceal’d.For no man shall, by know’ng, prevent his fate;And therefore will I hold in my free stateThe pow’r to hurt and help what man I will,Of all the greatest, or least touch’d with ill,That walk within the circle of mine eye,In all the tribes and sexes it shall try.Yet, truly, any man shall have his willTo reap the fruits of my prophetic skill,Whoever seeks it by the voice or wingOf birds, born truly such events to sing.Nor will I falsely, nor with fallacies,Infringe the truth on which his faith relies,But he that truths in chattering plumes would find,Quite opposite to them that prompt my mind,And learn by natural forgers of vain liesThe more-than-ever-certain Deities,That man shall sea-ways tread that leave no tracts,And false or no guide find for all his facts.And yet will I his gifts accept as wellAs his to whom the simple truth I tell.One other thing to thee I’ll yet make known,Maia’s exceedingly renowned son,And Jove’s, and of the Gods’ whole sessionThe most ingenious genius: There dwellWithin a crooked cranny, in a dellBeneath Parnassus, certain Sisters born,Call’d Parcæ, whom extreme swift wings adorn,Their number three, that have upon their headsWhite barley-flour still sprinkled, and are maids;And these are schoolmistresses of things to come,Without the gift of prophecy. Of whom(Being but a boy, and keeping oxen near)I learn’d their skill, though my great Father wereCareless of it, or them. These flying from homeTo others’ roofs, and fed with honeycomb,Command all skill, and (being enraged then)Will freely tell the truths of things to men.But if they give them not that Gods’ sweet meat,They then are apt to utter their deceit,And lead men from their way. And these will IGive thee hereafter, when their scrutinyAnd truth thou hast both made and learn’d; and thenPlease thyself with them, and the race of men(Wilt thou know any) with thy skill endear,Who will, be sure, afford it greedy ear,And hear it often if it prove sincere.Take these, O Maia’s son, and in thy careBe horse and oxen, all such men as arePatient of labour, lions, white-tooth’d boars,Mastiffs, and flocks that feed the flow’ry shores,And every four-foot beast; all which shall standIn awe of thy high imperatory hand.Be thou to Dis, too, sole Ambassador,Who, though all gifts and bounties he abhor,On thee he will bestow a wealthy one.”Thus king Apollo honour’d Maia’s sonWith all the rites of friendship; all whose loveHad imposition from the will of Jove.And thus with Gods and mortals Hermes lived,Who truly help’d but few, but all deceivedWith an undifferencing respect, and madeVain words and false persuasions his trade.His deeds were all associates of the night,In which his close wrongs cared for no man’s right.So all salutes to Hermes that are due,Of whom, and all Gods, shall my Muse sing true.