A solemn match was made; he lost the prize.
Ask Damon, ask, if he the debt denies.
I think he dares not; if he does, he lies.
Thou sing with him? thou booby!-Never pipe Was so profaned to touch that blubbered lip. Dunce at the best! in streets but scarce allowed To tickle, on thy straw, the stupid crowd.
To bring it to the trial, will you dare
Our pipes, our skill, our voices, to compare?
My brinded heifer to the stake I lay;
Two thriving calves she suckles twice a day,
And twice besides her beestings never fail
To store the dairy with a brimming pail.
Now back your singing with an equal stake.
That should be seen, if I had one to make.
You know too well, I feed my father's flock;
What can I wager from the common stock?
A stepdame too I have, a cursed she,
Who rules my hen-peck'd sire, and orders me.
Both number twice a day the milky dams;
And once she takes the tale of all the lambs.
But, since you will be mad, and since you may]
Suspect my courage, if I should not lay,
The pawn I proffer shall be full as good:
Two bowls I have, well turned, of beechen wood;
Both by divine Alcimedon were made;
To neither of them yet the lip is laid.
The lids are ivy; grapes in clusters lurk
Beneath the carving of the curious work.
Two figures on the sides embossed appear-
Conon, and what's his name who made the sphere,
And shewed the seasons of the sliding year,
Instructed in his trade the labouring swain,
And when to reap, and when to sow the grain?
And I have two, to match your pair, at home;
The wood the same; from the same hand they come,
(The kimbo handles seem with bear's foot carved,)
And never yet to table have been served;
Where Orpheus on his lyre laments his love,
With beasts encompassed, and a dancing grove.
But these, nor all the proffers you can make,
Are worth the heifer which I set to stake.
No more delays, vain boaster, but begin!
I prophesy before-hand, I shall win.
Palemon shall be judge how ill you rhyme:
I'll teach you how to brag another time.
Rhymer, come on! and do the worst you can;
I fear not you, nor yet a better man.
With silence, neighbour, and attention, wait;
For 'tis a business of a high debate.
Sing then; the shade affords a proper place,
The trees are clothed with leaves, the fields with grass,
The blossoms blow, the birds on bushes sing,
And Nature has accomplished all the spring.
The challenge to Damotas shall belong;
Menalcas shall sustain his under-song;
Each in his turn your tuneful numbers bring,
By turns the tuneful Muses love to sing.
From the great father of the gods above
My Muse begins; for all is full of Jove:
My Pollio writes himself:-a bull be bred,
With spurning heels, and with a butting head.
Who Pollio loves, and who his Muse admires,
Let Pollio's fortune crown his full desires.
Let myrrh instead of thorn his fences fill,
And showers of honey from his oaks distil.
Who hates not living Bavius, let him be
(Dead Mævius!) damn'd to love thy works and thee!
The same ill taste of sense would serve to join
Dog-foxes in the yoke, and shear the swine.
Ye boys, who pluck the flowers, and spoil the spring, Beware the secret snake that shoots a sting.
Graze not too near the banks, my jolly sheep;
The ground is false, the running streams are deep:
See, they have caught the father of the flock,
Who dries his fleece upon the neighbouring rock.
From rivers drive the kids, and sling your hook; Anon I'll wash them in the shallow brook.
To fold, my flock!-when milk is dried with heat, In vain the milkmaid tugs an empty teat.
How lank my bulls from plenteous pasture come ! But love, that drains the herd, destroys the groom.
My flocks are free from love, yet look so thin, Their bones are barely covered with their skin. What magic has bewitched the woolly dams, And what ill eyes beheld the tender lambs ?
Say, where the round of heaven, which all contains, To three short ells on earth our sight restrains: Tell that, and rise a Phoebus for thy pains.
Nay, tell me first, in what new region springs
A flower, that bears inscribed the names of kings;
And thou shalt gain a present as divine
As Phœbus' self; for Phyllis shall be thine.
So nice a difference in your singing lies,
That both have won, or both deserved the prize.
Rest equal happy both; and all who prove
The bitter sweets, and pleasing pains, of love.
Now dam the ditches, and the floods restrain;
Their moisture has already drenched the plain.
The Poet celebrates the birth-day of Saloninus, the son of Pollio, born in the consulship of his father, after the taking of Salona, a city in Dalmatia. Many of the verses are translated from one of the Sibyls, who prophesied of our Saviour's birth.
SICILIAN Muse, begin a loftier strain!
Though lowly shrubs, and trees that shade the plain,
Delight not all; Sicilian Muse, prepare
To make the vocal woods deserve a consul's care.
The last great age, foretold by sacred rhymes,
Renews its finished course: Saturnian times
Roll round again; and mighty years, begun
From their first orb, in radiant circles run.
The base degenerate iron offspring ends;
A golden progeny from heaven descends.
O chaste Lucina! speed the mother's pains;
And haste the glorious birth! thy own Apollo reigns!
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