Of this my numerous, lovely progeny, Still with Latona I might safely vie, Who, by her scanty breed, scarce fit to name, But just escapes the childless woman’s shame. Go then, with speed your laurell’d heads uncrown, And leave the silly farce you have begun.”

The tim’rous throng their sacred rites forbore, And from their heads the verdant laurel tore; Their haughty queen they with regret obey’d, And still in gentle murmurs softly pray’d.

High on the top of Cynthus’ shady mount, With grief the goddess saw the base affront, And, the abuse revolving in her breast, The mother her twin offspring thus address’d: