Menalcas, so nearly lost to us! Who would sing the nymphs? who strew the ground with blossoming plants, or train green shade over the springs? or those songs I caught of late from thee on thy way to our darling Amaryllis: Tityrus, while I return, (short is the way,) feed the she-goats; and drive them full-fed to drink, Tityrus; and amid the work, take heed of crossing the he-goat; he strikes with his horn.
M.—Nay these rather, which yet unfinished he sang to Varus: Varus, thy name, if but our Mantua survive, Mantua ah too near a neighbour to unhappy Cremona, singing swans shall bear aloft to the stars.
L.—So may thy swarms shun yews of Corsica, so may cytisus pasture swell the udders of thy kine, begin with what thou hast. Me also the maidens of Pieria have made a poet: I also have songs: even me the shepherds call a singer; but I believe them not. For, I think, I utter as yet nothing worthy of Varius or of Cinna, a cackling goose among these swans of song.
M.—So I do, Lycidas, and am thinking over silently with myself if I may avail to remember; and it is no mean song.
Come hither, O Galatea: what sport is among the waves? Here spring glows, here round the streams the ground breaks into many a flower; here the silver-white poplar leans over the cavern and trailing vines weave a covert of shade. Come hither; leave the mad billows to beat on the shore.
