Against Rufinus

When Python had fallen, laid low by the arrow of Phoebus, his dying limbs outspread o’er Cirrha’s heights — Python, whose coils covered whole mountains, whose maw swallowed rivers and whose bloody crest touched the stars — then Parnassus was free and the woods, their serpent fetters shaken off, began to grow tall with lofty trees. The mountain-ashes, long shaken by the dragon’s sinuous coils, spread their leaves securely to the breeze, and Cephisus, who had so often foamed with his poisonous venom, now flowed a purer stream with limpid wave. The whole country echoed with the cry, “hail, Healer”: every land sang Phoebus’ praise. A fuller wind shakes the tripod, and the gods, hearing the Muses’ sweet song from afar off, gather in the dread caverns of Themis.

A blessed band comes together to hear my song, now that a second Python has been slain by the weapons of that master of ours who made the rule of the brother Emperors hold the world steady, observing justice in peace and showing vigour in war.