The stag's a woven net, a gin the dove's;
Mankind's, a soft sweet maiden. Others have pined ere I:
Zeus! Father! hadst not thou thy lady-loves?"
Thus far, in alternating strains, the lads their woes rehearst:
Then each one gave a closing stave. Thus sang Menalcas first:—
MENALCAS.
"O spare, good wolf, my weanlings! their milky mothers spare!
Harm not the little lad that hath so many in his care!
What, Firefly, is thy sleep so deep? It ill befits a hound,
Tending a boyish master's flock, to slumber over-sound.