M. I durst not wager aught O'er them the chiseller's skill has traced a vine 40 And-what's that other's name, who'd take a wand And shew the nations how the year goes round; When you should reap, when stoop behind the plough? Ne'er yet my lips came near them, safe hid up. D. For me two cups the selfsame workman made, And clasped with lissom briar the handles round. Orpheus i' the centre, with the woods behind. Ne'er yet my lips came near them, safe hid up. -This talk of cups, if on my cow you've fixed Your eye, is idle. M. Nay you'll not this day 50 H Escape me. Name your spot, and I'll be there. Our umpire be-Palæmon; here he comes! 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, And woods are green, and passing fair the year. Damætas, lead. Menalcas, follow next. Sing verse for verse: such songs the Muses love. 60 D. With Jove we open. Jove fills everything, He walks the earth, he listens when I sing. M. Me Phœbus loves. I still have offerings meet For Phœbus; 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 skyhigh? 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. M. At heart Amyntas loves me. Yet what then? He mates with hunters, I with servingmen. D. Send me thy Phillis, good Iolas, now. Today's my birthday. When I slay my cow To help my harvest-come, and welcome, thou. 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 corn; And winds the tree; and me a maiden's scorn. M. Rain is the land's delight, weaned kids' the vine; 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 flow 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 overnigh: 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 ΙΟΙ 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 own 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. 110 P. Not mine such strife to settle. You have earned A cow, and you: and whoso else shall e'er ness. Close, lads, the springs. The meads have drunk enough. |