Читать книгу The Bucolics and Eclogues - Virgil - Страница 3

Who owns the flock, Damoetas? Meliboeus?

Nay, they are Aegon's sheep, of late by him

Committed to my care.

O every way

Unhappy sheep, unhappy flock! while he

Still courts Neaera, fearing lest her choice

Should fall on me, this hireling shepherd here

Wrings hourly twice their udders, from the flock

Filching the life-juice, from the lambs their milk.

Hold! not so ready with your jeers at men!

We know who once, and in what shrine with you-

The he-goats looked aside- the light nymphs laughed-

Ay, then, I warrant, when they saw me slash

Micon's young vines and trees with spiteful hook.

Or here by these old beeches, when you broke

The bow and arrows of Damon; for you chafed

When first you saw them given to the boy,

Cross-grained Menalcas, ay, and had you not

Done him some mischief, would have chafed to death.

With thieves so daring, what can masters do?

Did I not see you, rogue, in ambush lie

For Damon's goat, while loud Lycisca barked?

And when I cried, "Where is he off to now?

Gather your flock together, Tityrus,"

You hid behind the sedges.

Well, was he

Whom I had conquered still to keep the goat.

Which in the piping-match my pipe had won!

You may not know it, but the goat was mine.

You out-pipe him? when had you ever pipe

Wax-welded? in the cross-ways used you not

On grating straw some miserable tune

To mangle?

Well, then, shall we try our skill

Each against each in turn? Lest you be loth,

I pledge this heifer; every day she comes

Twice to the milking-pail, and feeds withal

Two young ones at her udder: say you now

What you will stake upon the match with me.

Naught from the flock I'll venture, for at home

I have a father and a step-dame harsh,

And twice a day both reckon up the flock,

And one withal the kids. But I will stake,

Seeing you are so mad, what you yourself

Will own more priceless far- two beechen cups

By the divine art of Alcimedon

Wrought and embossed, whereon a limber vine,

Wreathed round them by the graver's facile tool,

Twines over clustering ivy-berries pale.

Two figures, one Conon, in the midst he set,

And one- how call you him, who with his wand

Marked out for all men the whole round of heaven,

That they who reap, or stoop behind the plough,

Might know their several seasons? Nor as yet

Have I set lip to them, but lay them by.

For me too wrought the same Alcimedon

A pair of cups, and round the handles wreathed

Pliant acanthus, Orpheus in the midst,

The forests following in his wake; nor yet

Have I set lip to them, but lay them by.

Matched with a heifer, who would prate of cups?

You shall not balk me now; where'er you bid,

I shall be with you; only let us have

For auditor- or see, to serve our turn,

Yonder Palaemon comes! In singing-bouts

I'll see you play the challenger no more.

Out then with what you have; I shall not shrink,

Nor budge for any man: only do you,

Neighbour Palaemon, with your whole heart's skill-

For it is no slight matter-play your part.

Say on then, since on the greensward we sit,

And now is burgeoning both field and tree;

Now is the forest green, and now the year

At fairest. Do you first, Damoetas, sing,

Then you, Menalcas, in alternate strain:

Alternate strains are to the Muses dear.

"From Jove the Muse began; Jove filleth all,

Makes the earth fruitful, for my songs hath care."

"Me Phoebus loves; for Phoebus his own gifts,