TO JUPITER

Thundering monsignor, since when do you
hurl bolts at juveniles? I can't count up
how many plumes you had to saddle for
him who even these days bears your cup.

The Phrygian youth, of whom antiquity
his beauty praises so, should kiss the foot
of him who was for Spain splendor so great,
and scant, but fatal, now is merely soot.

Your minister, no gryphon, surely harsh,
which Steropes had forged in Lipari,
a bezoar I say of a new Peru,

the petals kindled of a fragile flower,
and not the towering Ceraunian peaks.
Oh Jupiter, oh you, it's always you!