She’ll keep my grapes in baskets brimming o’er,
And my rich must expressed by nimble feet.
She’ll count my flock; some home-born slave of mine
Will prattle in my darling’s lap and play:
To rural god ripe clusters for the vine,
Sheaves for my crops, cates for my fold, she’ll pay.
Slaves—all shall own her undisputed rule;
Myself a cipher—how the thought would please!
Here will Messala come, for whom she’ll pull
The sweetest apples from the choicest trees;