Idyll 3

3. The Serenade I go a-courting to Amaryllis, while my goats

graze on the hill, and Tityrus drives them.

Tityrus, my well-beloved, pasture the goats,

and lead them to the spring, Tityrus, and the Libyan

tawny he-goat—watch him, lest he butt you.

O lovely Amaryllis, why do you no longer peep

from this cave and call me, your darling? Do you hate me?

Do I look snub-nosed to you, close at hand,

nymph, and with too long a chin? You will make me hang myself.

See, here I bring ten apples; I plucked them from the place

where you bade me pluck them; and tomorrow I will bring you more.

Look, look at my heart-grieving sorrow. Would that I were

the humming bee, and might come into your cave,

slipping through the ivy and the fern that hide you.

Now I know Love; a heavy god he is; truly at a lioness's

teat he sucked, and his mother reared him in the woodland,

he who smolders me and pierces me to the very bone.

O you who look so lovely, but are all stone; O dark-browed

nymph, embrace me, your goatherd, that I may kiss you.

Even in empty kisses there is a sweet delight.

You will make me tear to little pieces, this instant,

the wreath of ivy that I keep for you, dear Amaryllis,

woven with rosebuds and fragrant celery.—

Ah me, what shall I suffer? What, poor wretch? Will you not listen?—

I will strip off my goatskin and leap into the waves yonder,

where Olpis the fisherman watches for the tunny;

and even if I die, at least that will be sweet to you.

I learned the other day, when, thinking of you, I asked whether you love me,

and the love-in-absence, the love-leaf, did not stick and crackle,

but withered idly there upon my smooth forearm.

And Paraebatis, the country sieve-diviner, spoke truth,

she who the other day was gleaning herbs, when she said that I

am wholly set on you, while you make no account of me.

Truly I keep for you a white she-goat that bears twins,

which dark-skinned Mermnon's hired girl also begs of me,

and I will give her to her, since you grow so coy with me.

My right eye twitches. Shall I then see her?

I will lean here against this pine and sing,

and perhaps she will look on me, since she is not of adamant.

When Hippomenes desired to wed the maiden,

he took apples in his hands and ran the race; and Atalanta,

as she saw, so she went mad, so she leapt into deep love.

The seer Melampus too led the herd from Othrys

to Pylos; and so the lovely mother of wise Alphesiboea

was laid in the arms of Bias.

And did not Adonis, pasturing his sheep upon the hills,

drive fair Cytherea to such a height of madness

that not even in death does she lay him from her breast?

I envy Endymion, who sleeps the changeless sleep;

I envy, dear woman, Iasion,

who won such joys as you who are profane shall never learn.

My head aches, but you do not care. I sing no more;

I will lie where I fall, and let the wolves devour me here.

May that be sweet as honey to you, down your throat.