Give me success and prosperity.

XVI. TO ASCLEPIUS (5 lines)

(ll. 1-4) I begin to sing of Asclepius, son of Apollo and healer of
sicknesses. In the Dotian plain fair Coronis, daughter of King Phlegyas,
bare him, a great joy to men, a soother of cruel pangs.

(l. 5) And so hail to you, lord: in my song I make my prayer to thee!

XVII. TO THE DIOSCURI (5 lines)

(ll. 1-4) Sing, clear-voiced Muse, of Castor and Polydeuces, the
Tyndaridae, who sprang from Olympian Zeus. Beneath the heights of
Taygetus stately Leda bare them, when the dark-clouded Son of Cronos had
privily bent her to his will.

(l. 5) Hail, children of Tyndareus, riders upon swift horses!

XVIII. TO HERMES (12 lines)

(ll. 1-9) I sing of Cyllenian Hermes, the Slayer of Argus, lord of
Cyllene and Arcadia rich in flocks, luck-bringing messenger of the
deathless gods. He was born of Maia, the daughter of Atlas, when she had
made with Zeus,--a shy goddess she. Ever she avoided the throng of the
blessed gods and lived in a shadowy cave, and there the Son of Cronos
used to lie with the rich-tressed nymph at dead of night, while
white-armed Hera lay bound in sweet sleep: and neither deathless god nor
mortal man knew it.

(ll. 10-11) And so hail to you, Son of Zeus and Maia; with you I have
begun: now I will turn to another song!

(l. 12) Hail, Hermes, giver of grace, guide, and giver of good things!
[2531]

XIX. TO PAN (49 lines)

(ll. 1-26) Muse, tell me about Pan, the dear son of Hermes, with his
goat's feet and two horns--a lover of merry noise. Through wooded glades
he wanders with dancing nymphs who foot it on some sheer cliff's edge,
calling upon Pan, the shepherd-god, long-haired, unkempt. He has every
snowy crest and the mountain peaks and rocky crests for his domain;
hither and thither he goes through the close thickets, now lured by soft
streams, and now he presses on amongst towering crags and climbs up to
the highest peak that overlooks the flocks. Often he courses through the
glistening high mountains, and often on the shouldered hills he speeds
along slaying wild beasts, this keen-eyed god. Only at evening, as he
returns from the chase, he sounds his note, playing sweet and low on his
pipes of reed: not even she could excel him in melody--that bird who in
flower-laden spring pouring forth her lament utters honey-voiced song
amid the leaves. At that hour the clear-voiced nymphs are with him and
move with nimble