1–2
TITYRUS
and from the hills the shadows lengthening fall!
the shepherd Corydon with love was fired
for fair Alexis, his own master's joy:
no room for hope had he, yet, none the less,
the thick-leaved shadowy-soaring beech-tree grove
still would he haunt, and there alone, as thus,
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to woods and hills pour forth his artless strains.
“Cruel Alexis, heed you naught my songs?
Have you no pity? you'll drive me to my death.
Now even the cattle court the cooling shade
and the green lizard hides him in the thorn:
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now for tired mowers, with the fierce heat spent,
pounds Thestilis her mess of savoury herbs,
wild thyme and garlic. I, with none beside,
save hoarse cicalas shrilling through the brake,
still track your footprints 'neath the broiling sun.
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Better have borne the petulant proud disdain
of Amaryllis, or Menalcas wooed,
albeit he was so dark, and you so fair!
Trust not too much to colour, beauteous boy;
