Classics Reader

Sweet is that whispering, goatherd — the pine there — the one that makes its music by the springs,

and sweetly too do you pipe: after Pan you will carry off the second prize.

If he takes the horned he-goat, you will get the she-goat;

but if he takes the she-goat as his prize, the kid falls to you (in turn);

and a kid's flesh is good, until the time you milk her.

Sweeter, shepherd, is your song than that resounding water which pours down there from the rock above.

If the Muses take the ewe as their gift,

you will get the stall-fed lamb as your prize;

but if it pleases them to take the lamb, then you will get the ewe afterwards.

Will you not, by the Nymphs — will you, goatherd — sit down here,

where this downhill slope is, and the tamarisks,

to pipe? And I will pasture the goats here meanwhile.

It is not lawful, shepherd — at noontide it is not lawful for us — to pipe.

We fear Pan; for at that hour, worn out from the hunt, he takes his rest; and he is bitter,

and always the sharp bile sits upon his nostril.

But you, Thyrsis — since you used to sing the sorrows of Daphnis and have reached the summit of the bucolic Muse —

come, let us sit here beneath the elm, over against Priapus

and the springs, just where that shepherds' seat is, and the oaks.

And if you sing as once you sang competing against Chromis from Libya,

I will give you a twin-bearing she-goat to milk three times over,

which, though she has two kids, is milked besides into two pails.

and a deep ivy-wood cup, sealed with sweet wax, two-handled, newly made, still smelling of the knife.

Around its rim above winds ivy, ivy dusted with golden helichrysum;

and down along it the tendril coils, glorying in its saffron fruit.

And within is wrought a woman, some artwork of the gods, adorned with robe and headband;

and beside her two men with lovely long hair wrangle with words in turn, one from this side, one from that;

but these things do not touch her heart.

but now, smiling, she looks toward this man, now again she throws her thought toward that one;

and they, hollow-eyed with love this long while, labour in vain.

And beside them are fashioned an old fisherman and a rugged rock,

on which the old man, straining, hauls his great net for a cast,

like a man toiling with all his might.

You would say that he was fishing with all the strength of his limbs,

so swollen do the sinews stand out all along his neck, grey-haired though he is;

and his strength is worthy of a young man in his prime.

And a little way off from the sea-worn old man, a vineyard is finely laden with darkening clusters,

which a little boy guards, sitting on the dry-stone walls;

and about him are two foxes: the one ranges along the vine-rows, plundering the ripe grapes,

while the other brings every trick to bear on his wallet,

and vows she will not leave the boy be until she has set him down to a breakfastless meal of dry bread.

But he, for his part, is plaiting a pretty cricket-cage of asphodel-stalks, fitting it together with rush,

and he cares neither at all for his wallet nor for the vines, so much does he delight in his plaiting.

And all around the cup is spread the supple acanthus — a goatherd's marvel;

a wonder that would strike your heart with amazement.

For it I gave the Calydnian ferryman a goat as its price, and a great cheese of white milk;

and it has not yet at all touched my lip, but still lies undefiled.

And so I would very gladly gratify you, if you would sing me the lovely song, my friend.

And I am not mocking you at all. Come here, good friend;

for you will in no way keep the song for yourself, once you reach Hades that makes all things forgotten.