I thank the god Apollo for the deed
of granting me this gift: My golden dart
who bore me swift on Boreas that my art
might find its purpose helping those in need,
my mount, which God endowed with such a speed
to pull a ware too dear for any cart:
his healing. Just one doubt can pierce my heart—
I ask, God: How much swifter is the steed
of evil, that, no matter where I fly,
to realms beneath the earth, beyond the sun,
where unfamiliar stars rewrite the sky,
I meet my foe Misfortune there and waiting,
victorious, sated, hot and heaven-hating,
to find its gleeful business long since done?