Had I but Croesus’ wealth, we twain should stand
Gold-sculptured in Love’s temple; thou, thy lyre
(Ay or a rose or apple) in thy hand,
I in my brave new shoon and dance-attire. 
Fairy Bombyca! twinkling dice thy feet,
Poppies thy lips, thy ways none knows how sweet!

MILO. 
Who dreamed what subtle strains our bumpkin wrought? 
How shone the artist in each measured verse! 
Fie on the beard that I have grown for naught! 
Mark, lad, these lines by glorious Lytierse.

            [Sings]
      O rich in fruit and cornblade:  be this field
      Tilled well, Demeter, and fair fruitage yield!

Bind the sheaves, reapers:  lest one, passing, say—­
‘A fig for these, they’re never worth their pay.’

Let the mown swathes look northward, ye who mow,
Or westward—­for the ears grow fattest so.

Avoid a noontide nap, ye threshing men: 
The chaff flies thickest from the corn-ears then.

      Wake when the lark wakes; when he slumbers, close
      Your work, ye reapers:  and at noontide doze.

      Boys, the frogs’ life for me!  They need not him
      Who fills the flagon, for in drink they swim.

      Better boil herbs, thou toiler after gain,
      Than, splitting cummin, split thy hand in twain.

    Strains such as these, I trow, befit them well
      Who toil and moil when noon is at its height: 
    Thy meagre love-tale, bumpkin, though shouldst tell
      Thy grandam as she wakes up ere ’tis light.

IDYLL XI.

The Giant’s Wooing

    Methinks all nature hath no cure for Love,
    Plaster or unguent, Nicias, saving one;
    And this is light and pleasant to a man,
    Yet hard withal to compass—­minstrelsy. 
    As well thou wottest, being thyself a leech,
    And a prime favourite of those Sisters nine. 
    ’Twas thus our Giant lived a life of ease,
    Old Polyphemus, when, the down scarce seen
    On lip and chin, he wooed his ocean nymph: 
    No curlypated rose-and-apple wooer,
    But a fell madman, blind to all but love. 
    Oft from the green grass foldward fared his sheep
    Unbid:  while he upon the windy beach,
    Singing his Galatea, sat and pined
    From dawn to dusk, an ulcer at his heart: 
    Great Aphrodite’s shaft had fixed it there. 
    Yet found he that one cure:  he sate him down
    On the tall cliff, and seaward looked, and sang:—­

    “White Galatea, why disdain thy love? 
    White as a pressed cheese, delicate as the lamb,
    Wild as the heifer, soft as summer grapes! 
    If sweet sleep chain me, here thou walk’st at large;
    If sweet sleep loose me, straightway thou art gone,
    Scared like a sheep that sees the grey wolf near. 
    I loved thee, maiden, when