D.—Galatea, playful maid, throws an apple at me, and runs to the willows, and desires that she first be seen.
M.—But my flame Amyntas comes to me unbidden: insomuch that now our dogs know not Delia better.
D.—Gifts are got for my love: for myself have marked the spot where the wood-pigeons have built aloft.
M.—What I could I have sent to the boy, ten golden apples plucked from the woodland tree; to-morrow I will send as many more.
D.—O the times and the words that Galatea has spoken to us! carry but a little thereof, ye winds, to the gods' ears.
M.—What boots it that thou scorn me not in thine heart, Amyntas, if while thou huntest the boar I am keeper of the nets?
D.—Send me my Phyllis: it is my birthday, O Iollas: when I shall offer a young heifer for the crops, come thyself.
M.—I love Phyllis before all women: for she wept at my going, and cried, My fair one, goodbye and a long goodbye, O Iollas.
D.—A sad thing is the wolf among the pens, rains on ripe cornfields, the winds in the trees, as Amaryllis' anger to us.
M.—A sweet thing is moisture to the crops, arbutus to weanling kids, the pliant willow to the breeding herd, as Amyntas alone to me.
D.—Pollio loves our Muse, rustic though she be: maids of Pieria, feed a heifer for your reader.
