The Bucolics and Eclogues. Virgil

      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,