Hymn to Hathor from the Ptolemaic temple at Medamud
Come, O Golden Goddess, the singers chant
(for it is nourishment for the heart to dance the iba,
to shine over the feast at the hour of retiring
and to enjoy ha-dance at night)
Come! The procession takes place at the site of drunkenness,
This area where one wanders in the marshes.
Its routine is set, the rules are firm:
Nothing is left to be desired.
The royal children satisfy You with what You love
And the officials give offerings to You.
The lector priest exalts You singing a hymn,
And the wise men read the rituals.
The priest honors You with his basket,
And the drummers take their tambourines.
Ladies rejoice in Your honor with garlands
And girls do the same with wreaths.
Drunkards play tambourines for You in the cool night,
And those they wake up bless You.
The bedouin dance for You in their garments
And Asiatics dance with their sticks.
The griffins wrap their wings around You,
The hares stand on their hind legs for You.
The hippopotami adore with wide open mouths,
And their legs salute Your face.