The Eclogues of Calpurnius

CORYDON, OrNITUS.

CORYDON. Not yet the swooning summer breeds Abate of heat in Phoebus* steeds, Although beneath the vineyard’s press Each cluster yield ripe juiciness, And with hoarse murmurs in the fume Of boiling vats the new wine spume. Look, Ornitus, my friend, these cows. Our father bade us lead to browse. Their flanks luxuriously spread Where’er the rough broom forms a bed. Why do not we too seek the shade Here furnished by the neighbouring glade? Why should our faces fiercely tanned By simple bonnet thus be fanned?

Ornitus. Nay, Corydon, but towards this grove With better judgment let us rove. Yon grot our father Faunus likes, Where the pine-wood its slender spikes Masses right upwards, till it raise Its head to screen the burning blaze, Where the beech roofs the bubbling waves Of yonder fountain as it laves The very roots, and casts a shade Confused, by moving branches made.

Corydon. I follow wheresoe’er you choose; For while my Leuce doth refuse Her fond embrace and kisses sweet And joys for nightly season meet, I thus unchallenged entrance gain To horned Faunus* inmost fane.