Leaving, — to holy seats she hies,Not worshipping the power of wealthStamped with applause by stealth:And to its end directs each thing begun. Approach then, my monarch, of Troia the sacker, of Atreus the son!How ought I address thee, how ought I revere thee, — nor yet overhittingNor yet underbending the grace that is fitting?Many of mortals hasten to honour the seeming-to-be —