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might learn, while she follows the course of my songs, or whether with lithe movement she toss her snow-white arms: her innocence and modesty surpass her talent and her skill. Surely the nimble Loves, surely thou, Cytherea, wilt feel shame that such loveliness is wasted. Nor is it only Rome that is fruitful in marriage unions and blazing festal torches: in my country too are bridegrooms found. Not so utterly has Vesuvius’ peak and the flaming tempest of the baleful mountain drained of their townsmen the terror-stricken cities; they stand yet and their people flourish. Here are the dwellings of Dicarchus, founded with Phoebus’ auspices, and the harbour and the shores that the whole world visits; there are the walls that counterfeit the vastness of mighty Rome, which Capys filled with newcomers from Troy. There too is my own Parthenope, too small for her own citizens, yet with no lack of strangers, Parthenope, whom after she had fared across the sea Apollo himself by the help of Dione’s dove guided to a kindly soil.^[1]

This is the spot—for neither barbarous Thrace nor Libya is my native land—whither I fain would bring you; mild winters and cool summers temper its climate, its shores are lapped by the sluggish waters of a harmless sea. Peace untroubled reigns there, and life is leisurely and calm, with quiet undisturbed and sleep unbroken. No madness of the forum, no laws unsheathed in quarrel; our citizens admit but duty’s ordinance, and Right holds sway without rod or axe. Why should I now praise the gorgeous scenes and adornments of that land, the temples and wide halls spaced off by countless columns, the two great theatres, one open and one covered, and the