Cometas, this sweet lot was thine!  Thee the chest prisoned, for thee the honey-bees Toiled, as thou slavedst out the mellowing year:  And oh hadst thou been numbered with the quick In my day!  I had led thy pretty goats About the hill-side, listening to thy voice:  While thou hadst lain thee down ’neath oak or pine, Divine Cometas, warbling pleasantly.”

      He spake and paused; and thereupon spake I. 
    “I too, friend Lycid, as I ranged the fells,
    Have learned much lore and pleasant from the Nymphs,
    Whose fame mayhap hath reached the throne of Zeus. 
    But this wherewith I’ll grace thee ranks the first: 
    Thou listen, since the Muses like thee well.

[Sings] On me the young Loves sneezed:  for hapless I Am fain of Myrto as the goats of Spring.  But my best friend Aratus inly pines For one who loves him not.  Aristis saw—­ (A wondrous seer is he, whose lute and lay Shrined Apollo’s self would scarce disdain)—­ How love had scorched Aratus to the bone.  O Pan, who hauntest Homole’s fair champaign, Bring the soft charmer, whosoe’er it be, Unbid to his sweet arms—­so, gracious Pan, May ne’er thy ribs and shoulderblades be lashed With squills by young Arcadians, whensoe’er They are scant of supper!  But should this my prayer Mislike thee, then on nettles mayest thou sleep, Dinted and sore all over from their claws!  Then mayest thou lodge amid Edonian hills By Hebrus, in midwinter; there subsist, The Bear thy neighbour:  and, in summer, range With the far AEthiops ’neath the Blemmyan rocks Where Nile is no more seen!  But O ye Loves, Whose cheeks are like pink apples, quit your homes By Hyetis, or Byblis’ pleasant rill, Or fair Dione’s rocky pedestal, And strike that fair one with your arrows, strike The ill-starred damsel who disdains my friend.  And lo, what is she but an o’er-ripe pear?  The girls all cry ‘Her bloom is on the wane.’  We’ll watch, Aratus, at that porch no more, Nor waste shoe-leather:  let the morning cock Crow to wake others up to numb despair!  Let Molon, and none else, that ordeal brave:  While we make ease our study, and secure Some witch, to charm all evil from our door.”

      I ceased.  He smiling sweetly as before,
    Gave me the staff, ‘the Muses’ parting gift,’
    And leftward sloped toward Pyxa.  We the while,
    Bent us to Phrasydeme’s, Eucritus and I,
    And baby-faced Amyntas:  there we lay
    Half-buried in a couch of fragrant reed
    And fresh-cut vineleaves, who so glad as we? 
    A wealth of elm and poplar shook o’erhead;
    Hard by, a sacred spring flowed gurgling on
    From the Nymphs’ grot, and in the sombre boughs
    The sweet cicada chirped laboriously. 
    Hid in the thick thorn-bushes far away
    The treefrog’s note was heard; the crested lark
    Sang with the goldfinch; turtles made their moan,
    And o’er the fountain hung the gilded bee.