With lucky words favor my destined urn, 20
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!
[For we were nursed upon the self-same hill],
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill;
Together both, ere the high [lawns] appeared 25
Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,