This page has been validated.
22
AN HYMNE TO APOLLO.
Neuer so fruitfull; till the reuerend DameAscended Delos; and her soile did seaseWith these wing'd words: O Delos! would'st thou pleaseTo be my sonne Apolloes natiue seat;And build a welthie Phane to one so great:No one shall blame, or question thy kinde deede.Nor thinke I, thou, dost Sheepe or Oxen feede,In any such store; Or in vines exceede;Nor bring'st forth such innumerable Plants;(Which often make the rich InhabitantsCareles of Deitie.) If thou then should'st rereA Phane to Phœbus: all men would conferWhole Hecatombs of beeues for sacrifice,Still thronging hither. And to thee would riseEuer vnmeasur'd Odors; should'st thou longNourish thy King thus, and from forreigne wrongThe Gods would guard thee; which thine owne addresseCan neuer compasse for thy barrennesse. She said, and Delos ioi'd; replying thus:Most happie sister of Saturnius?I gladly would, with all meanes enterteinThe King your sonne; being now despis'de of men;But should be honord with the greatest then.Yet this I feare; Nor will conceale from theee;Your Sonne (some say) will author miserieIn many kindes: as being to susteinA mightie empire ouer Gods, and Men,Vpon the holie-gift-giuer the earth.
