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The first love of Apollo was Daphne, daughter of Peneus,
Which not an unknowing fortune gave him, but the savage anger of Cupid.
Recently the God, arrogant in his victory over the serpent,
Had seen him flexing his bow with the string drawn tight,
"And just what is it for YOU, naughty boy, with such strong arms?"
he had said: "those weapons better suit my shoulders,
I, who can give certain wounds to many wild enemies,
I, who just recently laid-low the Serpent, pressing with its chest over so many acres,
and with its Pythonian belly swollen with innumerable arrows.
You, be content to stir up those insignificant lovers
of yours by torch, and don't lay claim to my praises!
Then the son of Venus said: "May your bow, Apollo, pierce all things,
But may mine pierce you-- by as much as all animals
yield to you, God, so much less is your glory to mine!"
He spoke, and with the air having been driven forth by his beating wings,
Full of energy, he stood on the shady citadel of Parnassus,
And from his arrow-bearing quiver he drew two weapons
Of different uses: one makes one flee, the other makes love.
The love-making arrow is golden and has a sharp gleaming tip,
That which causes flight is blunt, and has lead beneath the shaft.
The god fixes this arrow in the nymph of Peneius, and with the other
He wounds the inner marrows of Apollo, piercing through bones,
Suddenly one loves the other, while the other flees the name of the lover
She retreats, rejoicing in the hidden places of the forest,
and there with the spoils of captured wild animals, the imitator of *** Diana:
A headband restrains her unlawful loose hanging hair,
Many sought her, having turned away her seekers,
Inexperienced and impatient in the ways of men, she wanders nameless paths,
She cares not for what might be marriage, nor what might be love, nor ceremony.
Often her father said: "Daughter, you owe me a son-in-law"
Often her father said: "Daughter, you owe me grandchildren"
She, having hated the marriage torches like a crime,
Having colored her beautiful face with a modest blushing,
And clinging to the neck of her father with pale arms,
"Allow for me in eternity, dearest father," she cried,
"to enjoy perpetual maidenhood! For the father gave this before to Diana."
He indeed complies, but that beauty of yours denies you
what you want, and your shape fights against your wish:
Apollo loves and desires the marriage of Daphne to have been seen
And that which he desires, he hopes for. But his own prophecies deceive him,
as when light stalks are burnt after the harvest is removed,
as hedges often burn by torch which a traveler moves too close,
either by chance, or as now, with leaves recycled beneath the moon.
Thus the God went into flames, thus with his whole heart
he is burned and nourishes his sterile love with hope.
He sees her unarranged hairs hanging from her neck
and thinks, "what if they were combed?" He sees her eyes
twinkling with fire like the stars, he sees her lips, which just to have seen
is not enough; he praises her fingers and hands
and arms and shoulders more than half-bare.
If anything lies hidden, he thinks it better. She flees him faster than
the light air, nor does she slow at these words of him calling her back:
"Nymph, I pray, of Peneius, Stay! I do not pursue you as an enemy.
Nymph, stay! Thus does a lamb flee a wolf, thus a deer from a lion;
thus a dove with trembling wings, flees an eagle.
Each flees from their enemies: but Love is my reason to follow.
Wretched me! May you not fall headlong, nor let brambles mark your legs,
not deserving of harm; and may I not be a cause of pain for you!
The places to which you hasten are rugged. Run more moderately, I beg,
and stop your flight. I will follow, myself, more moderately.
To whom you may please, ask however: I am not a mountain-dweller,
I am not a shepherd; I do not watch crudely over herds and flocks.
You don't know, reckless one. You don't know from whom you are fleeing,
and that is why you flee. Mine is the Delphic land,
Both Claros and Tenedos, and the palace of Petra serve me.
Jupiter is my father. Through me, what will be, and what has been,
And what is, is revealed. Through me songs harmonize with strings.
My arrow is certain, but one is truer than mine:
That (arrow) which made wounds in my empty heart!
Medicine is my invention. I am said to be a helper through the world,
and the powers of herbs are subject to me.
But woe for me, because love is curable by no herbs!
Nor are the skills, which are available to all, available to their master."
Peneius' daughter flees him, about to say more things, with a fearful course.
And leaves behind with him, himself, his unfinished words.
Then indeed she seemed proper. The winds were exposing her body;
the opposing winds were fluttering her clothes in her path.
And the light breeze was pushing back her blown hair.
Her beauty was increased by her flight. But indeed the young God
no longer endures to waste his flatteries, and despite the warning
of Cupid himself, he follows her footsteps at full speed.
Just like a Gallic dog, which has seen a hare in an empty field;
and this one seeks its pray on foot, that one seeks safety.
One similar to an animal just about to cling, hoping to now, just now
To grab and graze and *** its footsteps with extended snout.
The other one uncertain whether she has been seized and is snatched away
from the bites themselves; or whether she leaves behind a reaching mouth.
Thus this is the God and maiden: he swift with hope, she swift with fear.
He however follows having been helped by the wings of Cupid.
He is swifter and denies himself rest, and presses closely on the back of her fleeing.
He breathes on her hair, strewn over her neck.
After her strength was used up, she turned pale,
conquered by the labor of her rapid flight, & looking at Peneian waves
she said, "Bring me help, father! If your rivers have a spirit,
destroy my beauty, with which I pleased too much, by changing it."
Hardly having finished her prayer, a heavy numbness seizes her limp.
Her soft chest is encircled by slender bark;
her hair grows into foliage, Her arms grow into branches.
Her feet, once so swift, now cling to sluggish roots.
The treetop has her face, a single splendor remains in her.
Apollo also loves this tree, and with his right hand placed on the tree trunk,
he feels her heart still beating beneath new bark,
and having embraced with his arms her branches like limbs,
he gives kisses through the wood. The wood, however, recoils from the kisses.
To her, the God said, "Since you cannot be my wife,
you will certainly be my tree.
Forever my hair, my lyre, and my quiver will have you.
You will be present with Roman leaders; when a happy voice
will sing a triumph, you will see long parades.
You will stand at the Augustan gates as the same most loyal guardian
before his doors; and you will watch over half of the oak garland.
As my head is youthful with uncut hair,
So also will you wear the everlasting honors of foliage.
The Paean had finished: after branches were just made,
she nodded and seemed to have shaken her head, the treetop.