But you, O noxious, pygmy bird! whether it be you fly, Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering festering lie,-- I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong, Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song; Go, get thee hence! and never more discomfit me and mine,-- I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!
So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the telltale day,-- Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths of posies gay; We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine, And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard Of the large cold bottle,--_not_ the small hot bird!
[The exile Meliboeus finds Tityrus in possession of his own farm, restored to him by the Emperor Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The poem is in praise of Augustus, peace, and pastoral life.]
Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech-tree reclining, Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and slender; Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless repining, As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender.
A god--yes, a god, I declare--vouchsafes me these pleasant conditions, And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar; He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions, While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and of halter.
I do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I'm confounded To find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and battle. To exile and hardship devote, and by merciless enemies hounded, I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing cattle. Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm me-- But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who _is_ this good deity, tell me!
The city--the city called Rome, with my head full of herding and tillage, I used to compare with my home, these pastures wherein you now wander; But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpasses the village As the cypress surpasses the sprout that thrives in the thicket out yonder.
Tell me, good gossip, I pray, what led you to visit the city?