M.

ECLOGUE III.

MENALCAS. DAMETAS. PALÆMON.

Whose flock, Damotas? Melibœus's?

D. No, Ægon's. Egon left it in my care.
M. Unluckiest of flocks! Your master courts

Neæra, wondering if she like me more:

Meanwhile a stranger milks you twice an hour, Saps the flocks' strength, and robs the sucking lambs.

D. Yet fling more charily such words at men. You-while the goats looked goatish-we know who,

And in what chapel-(but the kind Nymphs laughed)—

M. Then (was it?) when they saw me Micon's

shrubs

ΙΟ

And young vines hacking with my rascally

knife?

D. Or when by this old beech you broke the

bow

And shafts of Daphnis: which you cried to see,

You crossgrained lad, first given to the boy; And harm him somehow you must needs, or die.

M. Where will lords stop, when knaves are come to this?

Did not I see you, scoundrel, in a snare

Take Damon's goat, Wolf barking all the while?
And when I shouted, "Where's he off to? Call,
Tityrus, your flock,"-you skulked behind the
sedge.

D. Beaten in singing, should he have withheld

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The goat my pipe had by its music earned? That goat was mine, you mayn't p'raps know: and he

Owned it himself: but said he could not pay. M. He beat by you? You own a decent pipe? Used you not, dunce, to stand at the crossroads,

Stifling some lean tune in a squeaky straw? D. Shall we then try in turn what each can do? I stake yon cow-nay hang not back-she

comes

Twice daily to the pail, is suckling twins. 30
Say what you'll lay.

M.

I durst not wager aught
Against you from the flock: for I have at home
A father, I have a tyrant stepmother.
Both count the flock twice daily, one the kids,
But what you'll own far handsomer, I'll stake
(Since you will be so mad) two beechen cups,
The carved work of the great Alcimedon.
O'er them the chiseller's skill has traced a vine
That drapes with ivy pale her wide-flung curls.
Two figures in the centre: Conon one,
And-what's that other's name, who'd take a
wand

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And shew the nations how the year goes round; When you should reap, when stoop behind the plough?

Ne'er yet my lips came near them, safe hid up. D. For me two cups the selfsame workman made,

M.

And clasped with lissom briar the handles round.
Orpheus i' the centre, with the woods behind.
Ne'er yet my lips came near them, safe hid up.
-This talk of cups, if on my cow you've fixed
Your eye, is idle.

Nay you'll not this day 50

H

Escape me. Name your spot, and I'll be there.
Our umpire be-Palæmon; here he comes!

I'll teach you how to challenge folks to sing. D. Come on, if aught is in you. I'm not loth,

I shrink from no man. Only, neighbour, thou (Tis no small matter) lay this well to heart. P. Say on, since now we sit on softest grass; And now buds every field and every tree, And woods are green, and passing fair the year. Damotas, lead. Menalcas, follow next. Sing verse for verse: such songs the Muses love.

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D. With Jove we open. Jove fills everything, He walks the earth, he listens when I sing. M. Me Phoebus loves. I still have offerings meet For Phoebus; bay, and hyacinth blushing sweet. Me Galatea pelts with fruit, and flies

D.

(Wild girl) to the woods: but first would catch

my eyes.

M. Unbid Amyntas comes to me, my flame; With Delia's self my dogs are not more tame. D. Gifts have I for my fair: who marked but I 70

The place where doves had built their nest sky

high?

M. I've sent my poor gift, which the wild wood bore,

Ten golden apples. Soon I'll send ten more. D. Oft Galatea tells me what sweet tales !

Waft to the god's ears just a part, ye gales. M. At heart Amyntas loves me. Yet what then? He mates with hunters, I with servingmen. D. Send me thy Phillis, good Iolas, now.

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Today's my birthday. When I slay my cow To help my harvest-come, and welcome, thou. M. Phillis is my love. When we part, she'll cry; And fain would bid Iolas' self ood bye.

D. Wolves kill the flocks, and storms the ripened

corn;

And winds the tree; and me a maiden's scorn. M. Rain is the land's delight, weaned kids' the vine;

Big ewes' lithe willow; and one fair face mine. .D. Pollio loves well this homely muse of mine. For a new votary fat a calf, ye Nine.

M. Pollio makes songs. For him a bull demand,