From when I was first conceived
     I was never so homely as my smith
          Though my archer does my beauty justice
               Especially when he delivers
his.

That spear caressed in my broad silvern arms
     Slays serpents as to deliver Leto
          From Hera’s ill-begotten jealousy
               And conquer the great Castalian
Spring.

I am the pestilence that wreaks the Greeks
     And bring mothers onto old, feeble knees
          to answer the call of the Trojan priest
               For whom’s suffering my strings like a lyre’s,
twang.