your bride along; now, bridegroom, scatter nuts:forsaking Oeta mounts the evening star!‘Begin, my flute, with me Maenalian lays.’O worthy of thy mate, while all men elsethou scornest, and with loathing dost beholdmy shepherd's pipe, my goats, my shaggy brow,and untrimmed beard, nor deem'st that any godfor mortal doings hath regard or care.‘Begin, my flute, with me Maenalian lays.’Once with your mother, in our orchard-garth,a little maid I saw you—I your guide—plucking the dewy apples. My twelfth yearI scarce had entered, and could barely reachthe brittle boughs. I looked, and I was lost;a sudden frenzy swept my wits away.‘Begin, my flute, with me Maenalian lays.’Now know I what Love is: 'mid savage rockstmaros or Rhodope brought forth the boy,or Garamantes in earth's utmost bounds—no kin of ours, nor of our blood begot.