Apollo

"Sing to Apollo, God of Day, Whose golden beames with morning play, And make her eyes so brightly shine, Aurora’s face is call’d Divine. Sing to Phoebus, and that Throne Of Diamonds which he sits upon. Io, Pæans let us sing, To Physickes and to Poesies King Crowne all his Altars with bright fire, Laurels bind about his Lire, A Daphnean Coronet for his Head, The Muses dance about his Bed; When on his ravishing Lute he playes, Strew his Temple round with Bayes. Io, Pæans let us sing, To the glittering Delian King."

"Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold?"

"Ah good boy, in whose virtue one advances! | So I went to the stars. Now you show well | that you were born from the gods, and that other gods | they will be born from you. You are well worthy | that every war that fate still threatens | at the house of Assáraco, calm down | for your greatness, to which Troy is lesser, | yes, you already don't understand. (Publius Virgilio Marone, Aeneid) referring to Ascanius"

"In the Phrygian fields Marsyas | not only sweet sounds and sings, | but being more learned boasts | of the ruler of Pindus. || Fauns, Satyrs, and Sylvans, | Semi-goats, Semi-Gods, | to the sweet and beautiful poems | with pointed ears stan. || The Satyr is swollen with pride it comes that Apollo mocks himself; | Phoebus descends to the challenge, | and filled my heart with indignation. || The Capriped Satyr sings; | the anger within the God is inflamed, | as in wood ascosa flame | it usually sparkles in the wind. || L'Amadriadi listeners | to like Marsyas they give a sign: | but he brings wood to her beautiful lip Phoebus, and gives breath to it. || Sweet breath now pushes you; | now tremoli and shipped, | flying, the light fingers, | make the Goddesses marvel. || New laurel is grafted into the crin | of the Muses to the ruler, | but the fury did not abate which Marsyas stirred in him. || Formerly of Styx at the peat lake | he swore revenge on her, | and is now in a hurry to complete it above the miserable mortal. || The miserable man is tied to a pine tree he wants it to die little by little; | he already flays it and squojas it | with the rustic knife. || Blood drips, and veins and muscles | they reveal themselves, they show themselves; | and his limbs unravel, | and they are all a plague. || If such a reward were waiting today | who believes himself to be a new Apollo, | what should feral collapse | and yet put up with it! || The exalted poet is indeed mad he hates and takes pride in himself. | The nightingale with hoarse song | so he challenges the vile bird. || But even Phoebus I already don't praise, | because the comparison was low, | and he insulted himself, | when he challenged him to the poem. || He had to with silence | curb vile pride, | nor did he have to be a gentle singer | with a Satyr chattering. || The taller bear, in chains, | aware of his strength, | of the mastin he does not hear and despises | often rabid barking. || This is how Apollo should have shown himself; | but can anyone conquer himself? | Nor is there any virtue that is nearby don't make any mistakes. (Teresa Bandettini)"

"O divine Appollo and first Eye of the Sky | understand my prayers and fill the radius | remove the wandering fleece from my eyes | and to prepare my journey | please help me and guide me | yes, like an ornate and wise eternal light. (Lorenzo Spirito Gualtieri)"