Our mounting hope with sadness.
For the chaste Artemis[f8] a sore grudge nurses
Against the kings; Jove’s winged hounds she curses,[n14]
The fierce war-birds that tore
The fearful hare, with the young brood it bore.
Sing woe and well-a-day! but still
May the good omens shame the ill.
EPODE.
The lion’s fresh-dropt younglings, and each whelp
That sucks wild milk, and through the forest roves,