This now, the very latest of my toils,vouchsafe me, Arethusa! needs must Ising a brief song to Gallus—brief, but yetsuch as Lycoris' self may fitly read.Who would not sing for Gallus? So, when thoubeneath Sicanian billows glidest on,may Doris blend no bitter wave with thine,begin! The love of Gallus be our theme,and the shrewd pangs he suffered, while, hard by,the flat-nosed she-goats browse the tender brush.We sing not to deaf ears; no word of oursbut the woods echo it. What groves or lawnsheld you, ye Dryad-maidens, when for love—love all unworthy of a loss so dear—Gallus lay dying? for neither did the slopesof Pindus or Parnassus stay you then,no, nor Aonian Aganippe. Himeven the laurels and the tamarisks wept;for him, outstretched beneath a lonely rock,wept pine-clad Maenalus, and the flinty crags