Or hunt the keen wild boar. No frost so cold But I will hem with hounds thy forest-glades, Parthenius. Even now, methinks, I range O'er rocks, through echoing groves, and joy to launch Cydonian arrows from a Parthian bow.- As if my madness could find healing thus, Or that god soften at a mortal's grief! Now neither Hamadryads, no, nor songs Delight me more: ye woods, away with you! No pangs of ours can change him; not though we In the mid-frost should drink of Hebrus' stream, And in wet winters face Sithonian snows, Or, when the bark of the tall elm-tree bole Of drought is dying, should, under Cancer's Sign, In Aethiopian deserts drive our flocks. Love conquers all things; yield we too to love!" These songs, Pierian Maids, shall it suffice Your poet to have sung, the while he sat, And of slim mallow wove a basket fine: To Gallus ye will magnify their worth, Gallus, for whom my love grows hour by hour, As the green alder shoots in early Spring. Come, let us rise: the shade is wont to be Baneful to singers; baneful is the shade Cast by the juniper, crops sicken too In shade. Now homeward, having fed your fill-- Eve's star is rising-go, my she-goats, go.