All other faults with patience I can bear; But swiftness is the vice I only fear. Yet, if you knew me well, you would not shun My love, but to my wished embraces run; Would languish in your turn, and court my stay, And much repent of your unwise delay. My palace, in the living rock, is made } By nature's hand; a spacious pleasing shade, } Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade. } My garden filled with fruits you may behold, And grapes in clusters, imitating gold; Some blushing bunches of a purple hue; And these, and those, are all reserved for you. Red strawberries in shades expecting stand, Proud to be gathered by so white a hand. Autumnal cornels latter fruit provide, And plumbs, to tempt you, turn their glossy side; Not those of common kinds, but such alone, As in Phæacian orchards might have grown. Nor chesnuts shall be wanting to your food, Nor garden-fruits, nor wildings of the wood. The laden boughs for you alone shall bear, And yours shall be the product of the year. The flocks you see are all my own, beside } The rest that woods and winding vallies hide, } And those that folded in the caves abide. } Ask not the numbers of my growing store; Who knows how many, knows he has no more. Nor will I praise my cattle; trust not me, But judge yourself, and pass your own decree. Behold their swelling dugs; the sweepy weight Of ewes, that sink beneath the milky freight; In the warm folds their tender lambkins lie; Apart from kids, that call with human cry. New milk in nut-brown bowls is duly served For daily drink, the rest for cheese reserved. Nor are these household dainties all my store; } The fields and forests will afford us more; } The deer, the hare, the goat, the savage boar. } All sorts of venison, and of birds the best; A pair of turtles taken from the nest. I walked the mountains, and two cubs[40] I found, Whose dam had left them on the naked ground; So like, that no distinction could be seen; So pretty, they were presents for a queen; And so they shall; I took them both away, And keep, to be companions of your play. Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above The waves; nor scorn my presents, and my love. Come, Galatea, come, and view my face; } I late beheld it in the watery glass, } And found it lovelier than I feared it was. } Survey my towering stature, and my size: Not Jove, the Jove you dream, that rules the skies, Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread. My locks (the plenteous harvest of my head,) Hang o'er my manly face, and dangling down, As with a shady grove, my shoulders crown.