No doubt you trace your line from him,Who stretch'd his sway o'er Formiae,And Liris, whose still waters swimWhore green Marica skirts the sea,Lord of broad realms), an eastern galeWill blow to-morrow, and bestrewThe shore with weeds, with leaves the vale,If rain's old prophet tell me true,The raven. Gather, while 'tis fine,Your wood; tomorrow shall be gayWith smoking pig and streaming wine,And lord and slave keep holyday.O wont the flying Nymphs to woo,Good Faunus, through my sunny farmPass gently, gently pass, nor doMy younglings harm.