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Never will I cease to link in one the Graces and the Muses,  sweetest union. Never may I live among uneducated boors, but ever may I find a place among the crowned!  Yes, still the aged singer lifts up his voice of bygone memories: still is my song of the triumphs of Heracles, whether Bromius the giver of wine is near, or the strains of the seven-stringed lyre and the Libyan pipe are rising;  not yet will I cease to sing the Muses' praise, my patrons in the dance.