For Linus’ death, by all the tuneful Nine
Bewailed, doth Phœbus’ self complain,
And loudly uttering his auspicious strain,
Smite with a golden quill the lyre; but mine
Shall be the task, while songs of praise
I chaunt and twine the laureate wreath,
His matchless fortitude t’ emblaze,
Who sought hell’s inmost gloom, the dreary shades beneath;
Whether I call the hero son of Jove,
Or of Amphitryon; for the fame
To which his labours have so just a claim,
Must e’en in death attract the public love:
In the Nemæan forest first he slew
That lion huge, whose tawny hide
And grinning jaws extended wide,
He o’er his shoulders threw.