Eclogues

Perseus Latin · Perseus Latin · 1,060 sections

3.11
We know who once, and in what shrine with you—
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the he-goats looked aside—the light nymphs laughed—
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Ay, then, I warrant, when they saw me slash
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micon's young vines and trees with spiteful hook.
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Or here by these old beeches, when you broke
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the bow and arrows of Damon; for you chafed
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when first you saw them given to the boy,
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cross-grained Menalcas, ay, and had you not
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done him some mischief, would have chafed to death.
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With thieves so daring, what can masters do?
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Did I not see you, rogue, in ambush lie
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for Damon's goat, while loud Lycisca barked?
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And when I cried, “Where is he off to now?
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Gather your flock together, Tityrus,”
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you hid behind the sedges.
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Well, was he
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whom I had conquered still to keep the goat.
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Which in the piping-match my pipe had won!
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You may not know it, but the goat was mine.
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You out-pipe him? when had you ever pipe
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wax-welded? in the cross-ways used you not
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on grating straw some miserable tune
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to mangle?
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Well, then, shall we try our skill
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each against each in turn? Lest you be loth,
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I pledge this heifer; every day she comes
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twice to the milking-pail, and feeds withal
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two young ones at her udder: say you now
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what you will stake upon the match with me.
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Naught from the flock I'll venture, for at home
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I have a father and a step-dame harsh,
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and twice a day both reckon up the flock,
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and one withal the kids. But I will stake,
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seeing you are so mad, what you yourself
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will own more priceless far—two beechen cups
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by the divine art of Alcimedon
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wrought and embossed, whereon a limber vine,
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wreathed round them by the graver's facile tool,
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twines over clustering ivy-berries pale.
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Two figures, one Conon, in the midst he set,
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and one—how call you him, who with his wand
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marked out for all men the whole round of heaven,
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that they who reap, or stoop behind the plough,
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might know their several seasons? Nor as yet
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have I set lip to them, but lay them by.
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For me too wrought the same Alcimedon
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a pair of cups, and round the handles wreathed
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pliant acanthus, Orpheus in the midst,
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the forests following in his wake; nor yet
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have I set lip to them, but lay them by.
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Matched with a heifer, who would prate of cups?
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You shall not balk me now; where'er you bid,
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I shall be with you; only let us have
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for auditor—or see, to serve our turn,
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yonder Palaemon comes! In singing-bouts
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i'll see you play the challenger no more.
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Out then with what you have; I shall not shrink,
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nor budge for any man: only do you,
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neighbour Palaemon, with your whole heart's skill—
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for it is no slight matter—play your part.
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Say on then, since on the greensward we sit,
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and now is burgeoning both field and tree;
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now is the forest green, and now the year
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at fairest. Do you first, Damoetas, sing,
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then you, Menalcas, in alternate strain:
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alternate strains are to the Muses dear.
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“From Jove the Muse began; Jove filleth all,
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makes the earth fruitful, for my songs hath care.”
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“Me Phoebus loves; for Phoebus his own gifts,
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bays and sweet-blushing hyacinths, I keep.”
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“Gay Galatea throws an apple at me,
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then hies to the willows, hoping to be seen.”
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“My dear Amyntas comes unasked to me;
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not Delia to my dogs is better known.”
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“Gifts for my love I've found; mine eyes have marked
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where the wood-pigeons build their airy nests.”
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“Ten golden apples have I sent my boy,
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all that I could, to-morrow as many more.”
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“What words to me, and uttered O how oft,
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hath Galatea spoke! waft some of them,
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ye winds, I pray you, for the gods to hear.”
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“It profiteth me naught, Amyntas mine,
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that in your very heart you spurn me not,
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if, while you hunt the boar, I guard the nets.”
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“Prithee, Iollas, for my birthday guest
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send me your Phyllis; when for the young crops
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I slay my heifer, you yourself shall come.”
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“I am all hers; she wept to see me go,
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and, lingering on the word, ‘farewell’ she said,
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‘My beautiful Iollas, fare you well.’”
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“Fell as the wolf is to the folded flock,
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rain to ripe corn, Sirocco to the trees,
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the wrath of Amaryllis is to me.”
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“As moisture to the corn, to ewes with young
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lithe willow, as arbute to the yeanling kids,
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so sweet Amyntas, and none else, to me.”
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“My Muse, although she be but country-bred,
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is loved by Pollio: O Pierian Maids,
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pray you, a heifer for your reader feed!”
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“Pollio himself too doth new verses make:

Perseus Latin. CTS URN phi0690.phi001.perseus-eng2. Via the Perseus Digital Library / Open Greek and Latin TEI corpora. Licence: CC BY-SA 4.0. Source.