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love all unworthy of a loss so dear—
Gallus lay dying? for neither did the slopes
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of Pindus or Parnassus stay you then,
no, nor Aonian Aganippe. Him
even the laurels and the tamarisks wept;
for him, outstretched beneath a lonely rock,
wept pine-clad Maenalus, and the flinty crags
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of cold Lycaeus. The sheep too stood around—
of us they feel no shame, poet divine;
nor of the flock be thou ashamed: even fair
Adonis by the rivers fed his sheep—
came shepherd too, and swine-herd footing slow,
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and, from the winter-acorns dripping-wet
Menalcas. All with one accord exclaim:
“From whence this love of thine?” Apollo came;
“Gallus, art mad?” he cried, “thy bosom's care
another love is following.” Therewithal
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Silvanus came, with rural honours crowned;
the flowering fennels and tall lilies shook
before him. Yea, and our own eyes beheld
