your vines in order! Go, once happy flock, my she-goats, go. Never again shall I, stretched in green cave, behold you from afar hang from the bushy rock; my songs are sung; never again will you, with me to tend, on clover-flower, or bitter willows, browse. TITYRUS Yet here, this night, you might repose with me, on green leaves pillowed: apples ripe have I, soft chestnuts, and of curdled milk enow. And, see, the farm-roof chimneys smoke afar, and from the hills the shadows lengthening fall! ALEXIS 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, 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: 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. 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;