M.—Pollio himself too makes new songs: feed a bull, soon to strike with his horn and scatter the sand with his feet.
D.—Let him who loves thee, Pollio, come where thou too takest delight: let honey flow for him, and the rough briar yield him spice.
J.—Who hates not Bavius, let him love thy songs, O Maevius, and withal yoke foxes and milk he-goats.
D.—Gatherers of flowers and ground-strawberries, fly hence, O children, a cold snake lurks in the grass.
M.—Stay, my sheep, from too far advance: ill is it to trust the bank: the lordly ram even now dries his fleece.
D.—Tityrus, put back the grazing kids from the river: myself, when the time comes, will wash them all in the spring.
J.—Fold the sheep, children: if the heat steals the milk, as of late, vainly shall we squeeze the udders in our hands.
D.—Alas, alas, how lean is my bull among the juicy tares: the same love is death to herd and to herdsman.
M.—With these assuredly love is not to blame: their bones hardly cling together: some evil eye is cast on my tender lambs.
D.—Tell in what lands (and thou shalt be to me as great Apollo) three fathoms and no more of open sky are seen.
M.—Tell in what lands flowers are born engraven with names of kings, and have Phyllis for thine alone.
