To fold, my flock!—when milk is dried with heat,
In vain the milkmaid tugs an empty teat.
DAMŒTAS.
How lank my bulls from plenteous pasture come!
But love, that drains the herd, destroys the groom.
MENALCAS.
My flocks are free from love, yet look so thin,
Their bones are barely covered with their skin.
What magic has bewitched the woolly dams,
And what ill eyes beheld the tender lambs?
DAMŒTAS.
Say, where the round of heaven, which all contains, }
To three short ells on earth our sight restrains: }
Tell that, and rise a Phœbus for thy pains. }
MENALCAS.
Nay, tell me first, in what new region springs
A flower, that bears inscribed the names of kings;
And thou shalt gain a present as divine
As Phœbus' self; for Phyllis shall be thine.