hope of the flock—an ill, I mind me well,which many a time, but for my blinded sense,the thunder-stricken oak foretold, oft toofrom hollow trunk the raven's ominous cry.But who this god of yours? Come, Tityrus, tell.TITYRUSThe city, Meliboeus, they call Rome,I, simpleton, deemed like this town of ours,whereto we shepherds oft are wont to drivethe younglings of the flock: so too I knewwhelps to resemble dogs, and kids their dams,comparing small with great; but this as farabove all other cities rears her headas cypress above pliant osier towers.MELIBOEUSAnd what so potent cause took you to Rome?TITYRUSFreedom, which, though belated, cast at lengthher eyes upon the sluggard, when my beard'gan whiter fall beneath the barber's blade—cast eyes, I say, and, though long tarrying, came,now when, from Galatea's yoke released,I serve but Amaryllis: for I will own,