Phil. What a sweet scent is exhaled!
Misi. Here, here; bend to the left so as to escape the thickest of mud, in which thy steed at once would lose his hoof. How different this field is from the next, covered over with dirt, squalid, withered, bristling thick with straws, and armed with thorns.
Boy. Don’t you see that the field is covered with the waste from the river? and elsewhere it is fruitful.
Hyberno pulvere, verno luto, magna farra Camille metes.[43]
Phil. Please, sing some verses, as you are wont to do.
Misi. With pleasure.
Felix ille animi, divisque simillimus ipsis,
Quem non mendaci resplendens gloria fuco
Sollicitat, non fastosi mala gaudia luxus:
Sed tacitos sinit ire dies, et paupere cultu