TO APOLLO CHASING DAPHNE

Ruddy silversmith from up on high,
in whose bright beams the rabble pick their fleas:
Daphne, that nymph, who takes off and won't speak,
if you'd possess her, pay, and douse your light.

If you want to save yourself the pain,
oh, eye of heaven, try to buy her love:
Mars for bonbons sold his coat of mail,
and then his sword for jugs and sweet delights.

Stodgy Jupiter became a purse;
the maiden raised her skirt above her knees
in showers of coins to catch him on the run.

That was the doing of some duenna star,
—a star without a duenna it can't be—
Phoebus, get her help, since you're the sun