You know the place: then Leave Crete and come to us waiting where the grove is pleasantest, by precincts sacred to you; incense smokes on the altar, cold streams murmur through the apple branches, a young rose thicket shades the ground and quivering leaves pour down deep sleep; in meadows where horses have grown sleek among spring flowers, dill scents the air.
Queen!
Cyprian!
Fill our gold cups with love stirred into clear nectar
