« السابقةمتابعة »
Escape me. Name your spot, and I'll be there.
I'll teach you how to challenge folks to sing. D. Come on, if aught is in you. I'm not loth,
I shrink from no man. Only, neighbour, thou
('Tis no small matter) lay this well to heart. P. Say on, since now we sit on softest grass ;
And now buds every field and every tree,
D. With Jove we open. Jove fills everything,
He walks the earth, he listens when I sing. M. Me Phoebus loves. I still have offerings meet
For Phoebus; bay, and hyacinth blushing sweet. D. Me Galatea pelts with fruit, and flies
(Wild girl) to the woods: but first would catch
my eyes. M. Unbid Amyntas comes to me, my flame;
With Delia's self my dogs are not more tame. D. Gifts have I for my fair: who marked but I 70
The place where doves had built their nest sky
high? M. I've sent my poor gift, which the wild wood bore,
Ten golden apples. Soon I'll send ten more. D. Oft Galatea tells me—what sweet tales !
Waft to the god's ears just a part, ye gales.
He mates with hunters, I with servingmen.
80 M. Phillis is my love. When we part, she'll cry;
And fain would bid Iolas' self ood bye. D. Wolves kill the flocks, and storms the ripened
And winds the tree; and me a maiden's scorn. M. Rain is the land's delight, weaned kids the
Big ewes' lithe willow; and one fair face mine. · D. Pollio loves well this homely muse of mine.
For a new votary fat a calf, ye Nine. .. M. Pollio makes songs. For him a bull demand,
Who butts, whose hoofs already spurn the sand.
90 D. Who loves thee, Pollio, go where thou art gone, . For him Aow honey, thorns sprout cinnamon, M. Who loathes not Bavius, let him love thy
notes, Mævius:and yoke the fox, and milk he-goats, D. Flowers and ground-strawberries while your
prize ye make, Cold in the grass—fly hence, lads-lurks the
snake. M. Sheep, banks are treacherous: draw not over
See, now. the lordly ram his fleece doth dry. D. Tityrus, yon she-goats from the river bring.
I in due time will wash them at the spring. M. Call, lads, your sheep. Once more our hands, should heat
101 O'ertake the milk, will press in vain the teat. D. How rich these vetches, yet how lean my ox.
Love kills alike the herdsman and the flocks. M. My lambs—and here love's not in fault, you'll
Witched by some jealous eye, are skin and bone. D. Say in what land—and great Apollo be
To me-heaven's arch extends just cubits three. M. Say in what land with kings' names grav'n are
grown Flowers — and be Phyllis yours and yours alone.
11ο P. Not mine such strife to settle. You have earned
A cow, and you: and whoso else shall e'er
MUSES of Sicily, a loftier song
Come are those last days that the Sybil sang :