Proem
I wander afield, thriving in sturdy thought,Through unpathed haunts of the Pierides,Trodden by step of none before. I joyTo come on undefiled fountains there,To drain them deep; I joy to pluck new flowers,To seek for this my head a signal crownFrom regions where the Muses never yetHave garlanded the temples of a man:First, since I teach concerning mighty things,And go right on to loose from round the mindThe tightened coils of dread religion;Next, since, concerning themes so dark, I frameSong so pellucid, touching all throughoutEven with the Muses’ charm—which, as ‘twould seem,Is not without a reasonable ground:For as physicians, when they seek to giveYoung boys the nauseous wormwood, first do touchThe brim around the cup with the sweet juiceAnd yellow of the honey, in order thatThe thoughtless age of boyhood be cajoledAs far as the lips, and meanwhile swallow downThe wormwood’s bitter draught, and, though befooled,Be yet not merely duped, but rather thusGrow strong again with recreated health:So now I too (since this my doctrine seemsIn general somewhat woeful unto thoseWho’ve had it not in hand, and since the crowdStarts back from it in horror) have desiredTo expound our doctrine unto thee in songSoft-speaking and Pierian, and, as ‘twere,To touch it with sweet honey of the Muse—If by such method haply I might holdThe mind of thee upon these lines of ours,Till thou dost learn the nature of all thingsAnd understandest their utility.