Straying through the fields of Grace,
Who paints my verses with her colours,
On Dirce’s banks I gathered
A treasure, the richest flowers,
So that by taking them I could make
With hard-working hand
This round crown,
Thrice-twisted in Theban style,
To adorn the head of the glory
Of the happy darling of the gods,
Who here below brought back from the heavens
The daughters born from Memory.

Memory, queen of Eleuthera,
By means of nine kisses1 she received
From Jupiter, who made her a mother,
In nine nights conceived nine girls.
But when the wandering moon
Had twelve times curved to roundness
(To lighten again the darkness of the world)
The double arc of his brow,
Tired and in pain, she
Took to her bed below Olympus
And calling on [Lucina], gave birth
To nine daughters in one womb-full.

At this heaven cried out
With a beautifully holy voice,
Filling their new-made mouths
With the juice of Attic honey;
By which truly too
Verse was invented,
The verse which caresses us,
So that their sweet singing
Could sweetly enchant away
The cares of gods and men.