So, young men, prepare yourselves for singing and dancing.
Apollo appears not to all, only to the good.
He who sees him is great; who does not is lowly.
We will see you, Worker from Afar, and we will never be lowly.
Let the cithara not be silent.
Nor your step noiseless with Apollo approaching, you children,
If you intend to complete the marriage vows and to cut your hair,
And if the wall is to stand on its aging foundations.
Well done the youths; the strings are no longer at rest.

Be silent and hear the song of Apollo's glory.
Even the sea is silent, for bards celebrate
The cithara or bow, weapons of Lycoreian Phoebus.
Neither does mother Thetis mournfully lament for her Achilles
If she hears, "Hie Paian, Hie Paian."
Even the weeping rock forgets its griefs--
The sobbing stone forever fixed in Phrygia,
Marble where once a woman gaped sorrowfully.
Cry, "Hie, Hie"; it is a poor thing to contest the blessed.
May he who fights with the blessed fight my king,
And may he who fights my king also fight with Apollo.
The chorus which sings to Apollo with his heart
He will honor. He has the power; he sits on the right hand of Zeus.
Neither will the chorus sing of Apollo for only one day;
He is worthy of many hymns. Who would not readily sing of Apollo?

Golden is Apollo's mantle and golden its clasp,
As are his lyre and Lyctian bow and quiver;
Golden are his sandals, for Apollo is rich in gold.
Rich in possessions; you might have proof of this at Delphi.
Always fair, always young! Never do
Traces of down touch his blooming cheeks.
His hair drips fragrant oils to the ground,
But streaming from the locks of Apollo is not fat.
But Panacaea. In the city where these dew drops
Fall to earth all things are secure.

None is so versatile in skill as Apollo.
He watches over the archer; he watches over the bard;
Phoebus's are both the bow and song.
His are the prophets and prophetesses; from Phoebus
Physicians learn the skill of postponing death.