plucked at mine ear and warned me: “Tityrus,beseems a shepherd-wight to feed fat sheep,but sing a slender song.” Now, Varus, I—for lack there will not who would laud thy deeds,and treat of dolorous wars—will rather tuneto the slim oaten reed my silvan lay.I sing but as vouchsafed me; yet even thisif, if but one with ravished eyes should read,of thee, O Varus, shall our tamarisksand all the woodland ring; nor can there bea page more dear to Phoebus, than the pagewhere, foremost writ, the name of Varus stands.Speed ye, Pierian Maids! Within a caveyoung Chromis and Mnasyllos chanced to seesilenus sleeping, flushed, as was his wont,with wine of yesterday. Not far aloof,slipped from his head, the garlands lay, and thereby its worn handle hung a ponderous cup.Approaching—for the old man many a timehad balked them both of a long hoped-for song—