with its rustling woods, you will see an inspired prophetess, who deep in a rocky cave sings the Fates and entrusts to leaves signs and symbols. Whatever verses the maid has traced on leaves she arranged in order and stores away in the cave. These remain unmoved in their places and do not quit their rank; but when at the turn of a hinge a light breeze has stirred them, and the open door has scattered the tender foliage, never thereafter does she care to catch them, as they flutter in the rocky cave, nor to recover their places and unite the verses; in inquirers depart no wiser than they came, and loathe the Sibyl’s seat.

Here let no loss of time by delay be of such importance in your eyes – though comrades chide, though the voyage urgently calls your sails to the deep and you have the chance to swell their