Virgil

In those days I, Virgil, was nursed of sweet Parthenope, and rejoiced in the arts of inglorious ease.

Here is eternal spring, and summer in months not her own.

Let my delight be the country, and the running streams amid the dells—may I love the waters and the woods, though I be unknown to fame.

Blessed is he who has been able to win knowledge of the causes of things.

But I discern their flattery from their praise.

The mountain-tops unshorn, the rocks rejoice;

The lowly shrubs partake of human voice.

Shut off the springs now, lads; the meadows have drunk enough.

We fear not more the winds and wintry cold,

Than streams the banks, or wolves the bleating fold.

Both young Arcadians, both alike inspired

To sing, and answer as the song required.

Now the Virgin returns, the reign of Saturn returns.

Is it true, or the dream of a lover's desire?

Ye who cull flowers and low-growing strawberries, away from here, lads; a chill snake lurks in the grass.