Your Muse shall tell of public sports,And holyday, and votive feast,For Caesar's sake, and brawling courtsWhere strife has ceased.Then, if my voice can aught avail,Grateful for him our prayers have won,My song shall echo, “Hail, all hail,Auspicious Sun!”There as you move, “Ho! Triumph, ho!Great Triumph!” once and yet againAll Rome shall cry, and spices strowBefore your train.Ten bulls, ten kine, your debt discharge:A calf new-wean'd from parent cow,Battening on pastures rich and large,Shall quit my vow.Like moon just dawning on the nightThe crescent honours of his head;One dapple spot of snowy white,The rest all red.