white privets fall, dark hyacinths are culled.You scorn me, Alexis, who or what I amcare not to ask—how rich in flocks, or howin snow-white milk abounding: yet for meroam on Sicilian hills a thousand lambs;summer or winter, still my milk-pails brim.I sing as erst Amphion of Circe sang,what time he went to call his cattle homeon Attic Aracynthus. Nor am Iso ill to look on: lately on the beachI saw myself, when winds had stilled the sea,and, if that mirror lie not, would not feardaphnis to challenge, though yourself were judge.Ah! were you but content with me to dwell.Some lowly cot in the rough fields our home,shoot down the stags, or with green osier-wandround up the straggling flock! There you with mein silvan strains will learn to rival Pan.Pan first with wax taught reed with reed to join;for sheep alike and shepherd Pan hath care.