O Phœbus! Even the swan from forth her wings,
Jumping her proyning-bank, thee sweetly sings,
By bright Peneus’ whirl-pit-making streams.
Thee, that thy lute mak’st sound so to thy beams,
Thee, first and last, the sweet-voic’d singer still
Sings, for thy song’s all-songs-transcending skill.
Thy pleasure, then, shall my song still supply,
And so salutes thee King of Poesy.