Who shall be my love, this year? For it is spring; the breeze is sweet and the flowers are stirring within the earth. The ground is softer; the skies warmer. There are even green spots on the pastures.
Shall it be Lydia, who played with me last year? Her hair is golden, like wheat; her lips are soft; her white feet scarcely touch the herbs and grasses. She laughs joyously and is afraid of nothing.
Or shall it be Atthis, whose hair is brown and whom I have seen roving through the forests? Or Phyllis? Or Dorocleia?
Or shall it be—she whom I have not named—whose look is timid but very beautiful? I think I would prefer her; but she has never loved and perhaps she will not. She would protest and blush . . . I will speak to her, but I will give Lydia some flowers and a wooden bowl.
