MENALCAS "As moisture to the corn, to ewes with young Lithe willow, as arbute to the yeanling kids, So sweet Amyntas, and none else, to me." DAMOETAS "My Muse, although she be but country-bred, Is loved by Pollio: O Pierian Maids, Pray you, a heifer for your reader feed!" MENALCAS "Pollio himself too doth new verses make: Feed ye a bull now ripe to butt with horn, And scatter with his hooves the flying sand." DAMOETAS "Who loves thee, Pollio, may he thither come Where thee he joys beholding; ay, for him Let honey flow, the thorn-bush spices bear." MENALCAS "Who hates not Bavius, let him also love Thy songs, O Maevius, ay, and therewithal Yoke foxes to his car, and he-goats milk." DAMOETAS "You, picking flowers and strawberries that grow So near the ground, fly hence, boys, get you gone! There's a cold adder lurking in the grass." MENALCAS "Forbear, my sheep, to tread too near the brink; Yon bank is ill to trust to; even now The ram himself, see, dries his dripping fleece!" DAMOETAS "Back with the she-goats, Tityrus, grazing there So near the river! I, when time shall serve, Will take them all, and wash them in the pool." MENALCAS "Boys, get your sheep together; if the heat, As late it did, forestall us with the milk, Vainly the dried-up udders shall we wring." DAMOETAS "How lean my bull amid the fattening vetch! Alack! alack! for herdsman and for herd! It is the self-same love that wastes us both." MENALCAS "These truly- nor is even love the cause- Scarce have the flesh to keep their bones together Some evil eye my lambkins hath bewitched." DAMOETAS "Say in what clime- and you shall be withal My great Apollo- the whole breadth of heaven Opens no wider than three ells to view." MENALCAS "Say in what country grow such flowers as bear The names of kings upon their petals writ, And you shall have fair Phyllis for your own." PALAEMON Not mine betwixt such rivals to decide: You well deserve the heifer, so does he, With all who either fear the sweets of love, Or taste its bitterness. Now, boys, shut off The sluices, for the fields have drunk their fill. ECLOGUE IV POLLIO Muses of Sicily, essay we now A somewhat loftier task! Not all men love Coppice or lowly tamarisk: sing we woods, Woods worthy of a Consul let them be.