Arcadian swains, your youthful poet crown With ivy-wreaths; though surly Codrus frown: Or, if he blast my Muse with envious praise, Then fence my brows with amulets of bays, Lest his ill arts, or his malicious tongue, Should poison, or bewitch my growing song. CORYDON. These branches of a stag, this tusky boar (The first essay of arms untried before) Young Micon offers, Delia, to thy shrine: But, speed his hunting with thy power divine; Thy statue then of Parian stone shall stand; Thy legs in buskins with a purple band. THYRSIS. This bowl of milk, these cakes, (our country fare,) } For thee, Priapus, yearly we prepare, } Because a little garden is thy care; } But, if the falling lambs increase my fold, Thy marble statue shall be turned to gold. CORYDON. Fair Galatea, with thy silver feet, O, whiter than the swan, and more than Hybla sweet! Tall as a poplar, taper as the bole! Come, charm thy shepherd, and restore my soul! Come, when my lated sheep at night return, And crown the silent hours, and stop the rosy morn! THYRSIS. May I become as abject in thy sight, As sea-weed on the shore, and black as night; Rough as a bur; deformed like him who chaws Sardinian herbage to contract his jaws; Such and so monstrous let thy swain appear, If one day's absence looks not like a year. Hence from the field, for shame! the flock deserves No better feeding while the shepherd starves. CORYDON. Ye mossy springs, inviting easy sleep, Ye trees, whose leafy shades those mossy fountains keep, Defend my flock! The summer heats are near, And blossoms on the swelling vines appear. THYRSIS. With heapy fires our cheerful hearth is crowned; And firs for torches in the woods abound: We fear not more the winds, and wintry cold, Than streams the banks, or wolves the bleating fold. CORYDON. Our woods, with juniper and chesnuts crowned, With falling fruits and berries paint the ground; And lavish Nature laughs, and strows her stores around: But, if Alexis from our mountains fly, Even running rivers leave their channels dry. THYRSIS. Parched are the plains, and frying is the field, Nor withering vines their juicy vintage yield: But, if returning Phyllis bless the plain, The grass revives, the woods are green again, And Jove descends in showers of kindly rain. CORYDON.