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Come, and hear Corydon and Thyrsis vie

Who shall sing the sweetest.’

What could I do? My new-weaned lambs were safe penned at home;

And the match – Corydon against Thyrsis – was a mighty one:

I counted their sport above my work.

So in alternate verses the pair competed:

These Corydon, those Thyrsis sang in turn.

Corydon:

You mossy springs, and lawns softer than sleep,

And the green arbutus that shields you with scanty shade,

Ward the noontide heat from my flock.

Now comes the summer’s parching,

Now the buds swell on the pliant tendril.

Thyrsis:

With me you will find a hearth and pitchy brands;

With me a good fire blazing and doorposts black with soot.

Here we care as little for the freezing blasts of winter

As the wolf for the number of sheep

Or rushing torrents their banks.

Corydon:

Here stand junipers and shaggy chestnuts;

Strewn beneath each tree lies its native fruit;

Now all nature smiles; but if fair Alexis should quit these hills

The rivers would run dry.

Thyrsis:

The field is parched; the grass is athirst, dying in the tainted air;

The vines grudge their shade to the hills;

But at the coming of my Phyllis all the woodland

Springs to green life,

And rain descends in glad showers.

Corydon:

Dearest is the poplar to the shepherd,

The vine to the reveller,

The myrtle to the lover,

The laurel to the poet.

Phyllis loves hazels, and while Phyllis loves them,

Neither myrtle nor the poet’s laurel shall outdo them.

Thyrsis:

Fairest is the ash in the woodlands, the pine in the gardens,

The poplar by rivers, the fir on mountaintops;

But if you come often to me, the ash in the woodlands

And the pine in the gardens will yield to you.

So much I remember:

How Thyrsis strove in vain against defeat;

From that day Corydon is our only Corydon.

73

He delays: for the third time

The wick of the lamp droops and fades.

Would the flame in my breast sink with the lamp,

And not burn so strongly with sleepless desire.

Ah how often he promised to come in the evening,

But he does not scruple to break my heart

As easily as his vow.

74

Slender Melite, though now not young,

Has not lost the graces of youth.

Still her cheeks are rosy, and her eyes

Have not forgotten their brightness

Or how to charm.

Yet her decades are not few.

Her attractiveness seems to teach us

That time cannot subdue nature.

Alas:

At last that cannot be true.

75

I had lovable Juliana all night with me,

And all night she complained piteously:

From the hour when the evening star began to mount,

She blamed it for heralding the morrow’s dawn.

Nothing is just as we would have it:

The servants of love require endless nights.

76

Curious to find out if lovely Ereutho was fond of me,

I tested her heart by a subtle falsehood.

I said, ‘I am going abroad; but please remain, my dearest,

Faithful and ever mindful of my love.’

Whereupon she gave a great cry, and leapt up,

And beat her breasts with her hands,

And tore the clusters of her braided hair,

Begging me not to go.

Then, as if reluctantly complying, I consented.

I am happy in my love:

What I anyway wished to do, I granted as a favour.

77

Eluding her mother’s apprehensive eyes,

The charming girl gave me a pair of apples.

I think she had set fire to those red apples

With the torch of love: for I burn:

I burn: I burn:

Yet instead of two breasts

My luckless hands fondle two apples.

78

Melissias denies she is in love,

But her demeanour proclaims otherwise.

Unsteady is her step and she takes her breath in snatches;

Under her eyes are dark purple hollows.

Oh love! turn your flames on this rebellious maid

Till she cries aloud, ‘I am afire!’

79

I, a fisherman, having reached trembling old age,

Give the sea these gifts of all I have:

My pliant rods, my oar, my rudder and keel,

My curved and pointed hooks,

My net weighted with lead,

The floats that mark where the fish run,

These well-woven creels,

This flint to strike fire at evening,

My anchor, stay of my unstable boat,

Now lying in the seaweed:

And myself, whom