But oh, Quirites, how one errs!
Little elves of wondrous might!Whether good or evil they,
Whereby he's tainted,Perfect and fair he'll be,
Heav'nly bread her kisses proved,
His true followers sought.In pure cerements shrin'd,
Ring round ring I forthwith drew,
And the prince, whom they had fled from,Fondly-furious, thinks of vengeance,And, discarding sword and fire,Has them walled-up in the cavern,Walled-up fast with bricks and mortar.
Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee;They their silver voices gave thee,Age can never steal upon thee.Wise and gentle friend of poets,Born a creature fleshless, bloodless,Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring,To the gods e'en almost equal.
And when at eve all was hidden
Fly their nests so warm and chaste,And, inflamed with sensual love,
Strains of mortality
Till the charm had work'd aright.Then, to learned precepts true,