You at flute-blowing, as at verses I—
We sit down here, where elm and hazel mix.
Mop. Menalcas, meet it is that I obey
Mine elder. Lead, or into shade—that shifts
At the wind’s fancy—or (mayhap the best)
Into some cave. See, here’s a cave, o’er which
A wild vine flings her flimsy foliage.
Men. On these hills one—Amyntas—vies with you.
Mop. Suppose he thought to out-sing Phœbus’ self?
Men. Mopsus, begin. If aught you know of flames