And chesnuts, too, and apples, mellow'd red;
Likewise bright Ceres, Love, and Bromius.

Dark mulberries here and grapes of heavy bunch,
And light green cucumbers, of pendent stem.

The cottage-guard, too,'s there with ash-hook arm'd,
But not of body horrible, to fright.

Come hither, Alibida; for the ass

Is panting now; spare him, who's your delight.
The crickets fill the grove with frequent chirp;
The lizard rests, hid, cold, in its retreat.
If you are wise, rest on the summer grass;
Or do you wish to bring fresh crystal-cups?
Come, tired, repose now 'neath the ivy-shade,
And bind your wearied head with rosy wreaths.
You'll gain the kind looks of the charming girl.
Ah, may he perish who feigns empty pride!
Why keeps fresh garlands for the thankless tomb ?
You would not heap those wreaths upon a slab ?
Then hither bring us dice and set down wine.
Perish all those who for the morrow care!

Death says, reminding us: "Live on; I come."

VOL. III.

END OF THE COPA.

Y

PUBLII VIRGILII MARONIS

MORETUM.

VOL. III.

Y 2

PUBLII VIRGILII MARONIS

MORETUM.

JAM nox hibernas bis quinque peregerat horas,
Excubitorque diem cantu prædixerat ales :
Simulus exigui cultor quum rusticus agri,
Tristia venturæ metuens jejunia lucis,
Membra levat sensim vili demissa grabato,
Sollicitaque manu tenebras explorat inertes,
Vestigatque focum, læsus quem denique sensit.
Parvulus exusto remanebat stipite fumus,

Et cinis obductæ celabat lumina prunæ.

Admovet his pronam, submissa fronte, lucernam,
Et producit acu stupas humore carentes ;
Excitat et crebris languentem flatibus ignem.
Tandem concepto tenebræ fulgore recedunt,
Oppositaque manu lumen defendit ab aura,
Et reserat clausa, quæ prævidet, ostia clavi.
Fusus erat terra frumenti pauper acervus;
Hinc sibi depromit, quantum mensura patebat
Quæ bis in octonas excurrit pondere libras.
Inde abit, adsistitque molæ, parvaque tabella,

5

10

15

THE MORETUM

OF

PUBLIUS VIRGILIUS MARO.

FIVE winter hours had night now twice fulfill'd,
And the wing'd watchman had proclaim'd the dawn,
When Simulus, a tiller of the soil,

Fearful of hunger as the day approach'd,

From his spare cot lifts gradually his limbs,

10

And, hand outstretch'd, gropes through the flitting shade,
And seeks the hearth, which, touch'd, at length he finds.
Some smoke still linger'd in the expiring fuel,
And ashes hid the smould'ring embers' fire.
He, bending down, to these applies the lamp,
And with a pin the wick trims, wanting oil,
And fans the languid glare with frequent puffs.
The blaze received, darkness at length gives way.
He with his hand the flame keeps from the breeze
That's opposite, and with the ready key,
Which he provides, the fasten'd door unlocks.

A little corn was heap'd upon the floor;

15

Hence he extracts such as a measure yields

Which twice runs out at every eight pounds' weight;

And thence he goes and stands beside a mill,

20