Δεῦρο δηὖτε Μοῖσαι, χρύσιον λίποισαι.
HITHER now, Muses ! leaving golden seats.
Hither ! Forsake the fresh, inspiring wells,
Flee the high mountain lands, the cool retreats
Where in the temperate air your influence dwells,
Leave your sweet haunts of summer sound and rest,
Hither, O maiden choir, and make me blest.