Tell me, Damoetas, who owns the flock? Is it Meliboeus? No, but Aegon. Aegon the other day turned it over to me. Poor sheep, unlucky all the time! While your master fondles Neaera, and is afraid that she prefers me to him, this hired keeper milks his ewes twice an hour, and the flock are robbed of their strength and the lambs of their milk. Think twice before you utter these complaints against a man. I know who was with you while the goats looked askance, and in what shrine – but the complacent Nymphs just laughed. That day, methinks, when they saw me hacking Micon’s trees and tender vine shoots with a malicious pruning knife. Or was it when, by these old beeches, you broke Daphnis’ bow and arrows; for you were vexed, spiteful Menalcas, when you saw them given to the boy, and if you hadn’t hurt him somehow, you’d have died. What can owners do, when thieves are so daring? Didn’t I see you, rascal, trapping Damon’s goat, while his mongrel barked madly? And when I shouted: “Where is that fellow off to? Tityrus, mind your flock!” you were skulking behind the rushes. Didn’t I beat him in singing, and wasn’t he to pay me the goat my pipe had won by its songs? If you must know, that goat was mine; Damon himself admitted it, but said he could not pay. You beat him in singing? Why, did you ever own a wax-jointed pipe? Wasn’t it you, you dunce, that at the crossroads used to murder a sorry tune on a scrannel straw? Well, what do you say to us trying together, turn by turn, what each can do? I’ll stake this cow. Now don’t say no! She comes twice a day to the milking pail, and suckles two calves. Now tell me what stake you will put on our match. From the herd I dare not wager anything with you. I’ve a father at home, and a harsh stepmother; and twice a day both cont the flock, and one of them the kids as well. But (and here’s what even you will admit is far more), seeing that you are bent on follow, I will stake a pair of beechwood cups, the embossed work of divine Alcimedon. On them a pliant vine, laid on by the graver’s skill, is entwined with spreading clusters of pale ivy. In the middle are two figures, Conon and – who was the other, who marked out with his rod the whole heavens for man, what seasons the reaper should claim and what the stooping ploughman? Not yet have I touched them with my lips, but keep them safely stored. I also have two cups, made by the same Alcimedon, and he has clasped their handles with twining acanthus, and in the centre placed Orpheus with the woods following him. Not yet have I touched them with my lips, but keep them safely stored. If you but look at the cow, you will have no praise for the cups. This time you won’t get away! Wherever you challenge me, I’ll be there. Only let the one to hear us be – why, let is be who’s coming now , Palaemon. I’ll see to it that after today you challenge nobody to sing. Well, come, if you have any song; with me there’ll be no delay; I’ll not shrink from any judge. Only, neighbour Palaemon, give this your best attention; it is no trifling matter. Sing on, now that we are seated on the soft grass. Every field, every tree is now budding; now the woods are green, now the year is at its lovelies. Begin, Damoetas; then you, Menalcas, must follow. You must sing alternately; the Muses love alternate verses. With Jove my song beings; of Jove all things are full. He makes the earth fruitful; he cares for my verses. And me Phoebus loves; Phoebus always finds with me the presents he loves, laurels and sweet-blushing hyacinths. Galatea, saucy girl, pelts me with an apple, then runs off to the willows – and hopes I saw her first. But my boyfriend Amyntas comes to me unasked, so that now not Delia is better known to my dogs. I have found gifts for my darling; for I have myself marked where the wood pigeons have been nesting high in the sky. I have sent my boy – ‘twas all I could – ten golden apples, picked from a tree in the wood. Tomorrow I will send a second ten. O how many and how sweet the things that Galatea has whispered to me! Waft some part of them to the gods, ye winds. What good is it, Amyntas, that you scorn me not in heart, if while you pursue the boars. I am left to look after the nets? Send Phyllis to me; it is my birthday, Iollas. When I sacrifice a heifer for the harvest, come yourself. I love Phyllis most of all ; for she wept that I was leaving, and in halting accents cried, Iollas: “Farewell, farewell, my lovely!” Terrible is the wolf to the folds, the rains to the ripened crop, to the trees the gales, and to me the anger of Amaryllis! Sweet are the showers to the corn, the arbute to the new-weaned kids, to the breeding flock the bending willow, and to me none but Amyntas! Pollio loves my Muse, homely though she be: Pierian maids, feed fat a calf or your reader. Pollio makes new songs himself: feed fat a bull that butts already and spurns the sand with his hooves. May he who loves you, Pollio, come where he rejoices that you, too have come! For him may honey flow and the bramble bear spices! Let him who hates not Bavius love your songs, Mevius ; and let him also yoike foxes and milk he-goats! You lads who cull flowers and strawberries that grow so low, begone from here; a chill snake lurks in the grass. Venture not too far, my sheep; it is dangerous to trust the bank. Even now the ram is drying his fleece. Tityrus, turn back from the stream the grazing goats; when the time comes, I’ll wash them all in the spring myself. Round up the sheep, lads; if the heat of the day dries up their milk, as it did of late, in vain will our fingers press the teats. Alas, alas! How lean is my bull on that fat vetch! The same love is fatal to the herd and to the master of the herd. With mine at least – and love is not to blame – their skin scarce clings to the bones. Some evil eye bewitches my tender lambs.⁠a Tell me in what lands – and to me be great Apollo – heaven’s vault is but three ells wide. Tell me in what lands grow flowers inscribed with royal names – and have Phyllis for yourself. It is not for me to settle so close a contest between you. You deserve the heifer, and so does he – and whoever shall fear the sweets or taste the bitters of love. Shut off the springs now, lads; the meadows have drunk enough.