untroubled by whoever he is, that king
of the icy Arctic shores we’re afraid of,
or whatever might terrify the Armenians.
O Sweet Muse, that joys in fresh fountains,
weave them together all the bright flowers,
weave me a garland for my Lamia.
Without you there’s no worth in my tributes:
it’s fitting that you, that all of your sisters,
should immortalise him with new strains
of the lyre, with the Lesbian plectrum.

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