on her smooth forehead she had sought for horns,and for her neck had feared the galling plough.O ill-starred maid! thou roamest now the hills,while on soft hyacinths he, his snowy sidereposing, under some dark ilex nowchews the pale herbage, or some heifer tracksamid the crowding herd. Now close, ye Nymphs,ye Nymphs of Dicte, close the forest-glades,if haply there may chance upon mine eyesthe white bull's wandering foot-prints: him belikefollowing the herd, or by green pasture lured,some kine may guide to the Gortynian stalls.Then sings he of the maid so wonder-struckwith the apples of the Hesperids, and thenwith moss-bound, bitter bark rings round the formsof Phaethon's fair sisters, from the ground