MELEAGER.
- Book VII., Epigram 195.
Cicada, you who chase away desire,
Cicada, who beguile our sleepless hours,
You song-winged muse of meadows and of flowers,
Who are the natural mimic of the lyre,
Chirp a familiar melody and sweet,
My weight of sleepless care to drive away;
Your love-beguiling tune to me now play,
Striking your prattling wings, with your dear feet.
In early morning I'll bring gifts to you
Of garlic ever fresh and drops of dew.
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