Remember that the fair Adonis fed
His sheep on the rich lawns by river's bank.
Now comes the shepherd, and the neat-herds slow,
Menalcas too, all wet with harvesting
Plentiful acorns, in the wintry woods.
All ask of Gallus, why he madly loves?
Apollo bids him know, Lycoris now
Follows a new love through the snowy waste.
Behold, Silvanus, with his rustic crown,
Waving a sceptre made of lilies tall
And giant fennel-blooms. Then comes great Pan,
The god of Arcady, whom we have seen
"Rosy with juice of elder-berrics ripe.
"Where will this end?" he cries, "Love careth not
"For such as these, and cruel Love is not
"O'ercome by tears. The grasses cannot drink
"Too deeply of the softly-trickling rills,
"Nor will the bees quit cytisus in bloom,
"Nor browsing goats the green leaves of the Spring."
"Then sadly he replies—"Yet of all these
"Ye soon will sing. Arcadians skilled in song
"Unto your mountains when ye shall return.
"Ah, if one day your pipes should tell my loves,
"Softly my bones might rest beneath the sod.
"Would I had dwelt with you, to tend your flocks
"Or dress your vines! Yea, some fair maid might then
"'Neath bending willows my repose have shared.
"Phyllis perchance, or whom my fancy chose.
"Even Amyntas, though of swarthy hue.
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