1By chance Daphnis had sat down beneath a whispering holm-oak, and Corydon and Thyrsis had driven their flocks together, Thyrsis his sheep, Corydon his she-goats swollen with milk, both in the flower of their youth, Arcadians both, equal in singing and ready to respond. 6Here, while I was protecting my tender myrtles from the cold, the husband of the flock himself, my he-goat, had strayed; 7and I catch sight of Daphnis. 8When he sees me opposite, he says, 'Quick, come here, O Meliboeus; your goat and kids are safe; 10and if you can idle a while, rest beneath the shade. 11here the bullocks will come of their own accord through the meadows to drink, here the Mincius fringes its green banks with tender reed, and swarms hum from the sacred oak.' 14What was I to do?
14I had neither Alcippe nor Phyllis to shut up at home my lambs weaned from milk, and there was a contest, Corydon against Thyrsis, a great one. 17still, I set my serious business behind their game: so both began to contend in alternate verses; 19the Muses wished to recall alternate verses. 20Corydon gave these in order, Thyrsis those. 21Libethrian Nymphs, my love, either grant me such a song as you grant my Codrus: he makes verses next to Phoebus' own; 23or, if we cannot all do so, my tuneful pipe will hang here on the sacred pine. 25Shepherds, adorn your rising poet with ivy, Arcadians, so that Codrus may burst his sides with envy; 27or if he praises me beyond what is pleasing, bind my brow with baccar, so that no evil tongue may harm the bard to be.
29This head of a bristly boar, Delia, little Micon offers you, and the branching antlers of a long-lived stag. 31If this luck holds, you will stand full length in smooth marble, your calves bound with purple buskins. 33A bowl of milk and these cakes, Priapus, are enough for you to expect each year: you are the guardian of a poor garden. 35For now we have made you of marble, as times allow; 35but if the breeding fills up the flock, be made of gold. 37Galatea, daughter of Nereus, sweeter to me than the thyme of Hybla, whiter than swans, lovelier than pale ivy, as soon as the bulls come back fed to their stalls, if you have any care for your Corydon, come.
41Nay, may I seem to you more bitter than Sardinian herbs, rougher than butcher's broom, more worthless than cast-up seaweed, if this day is not now longer to me than a whole year. 44Go home, my bullocks, you have fed; if you have any shame, go home. 45Mossy springs, and grass softer than sleep, and the green arbutus that covers you with its scant shade, ward off the summer heat from the flock; 47now the scorching summer comes, now the buds swell on the pliant shoot. 49Here is a hearth and resinous pine-torches, here a great fire always, and doorposts black with constant soot; 51here we care as much for the cold of the North Wind as the wolf cares for the number of the sheep, or torrents for their banks.
53The junipers stand, and the shaggy chestnuts; 54the fruits lie strewn everywhere, each under its own tree; 55everything smiles now: but if lovely Alexis were to leave these hills, you would see even the rivers dry. 57The field is parched; 57the grass, dying from the sickly air, thirsts; 58Liber has grudged the hills the shade of vine leaves: at the coming of my Phyllis every grove will be green, and Jupiter will descend in abundance in joyful rain. 61The poplar is dearest to Alcides, the vine to Iacchus, the myrtle to lovely Venus, his own laurel to Phoebus; 63Phyllis loves the hazels: as long as Phyllis loves them, neither myrtle nor Phoebus' laurel will surpass the hazels.
65The ash is loveliest in the woods, the pine in gardens, the poplar by the rivers, the fir on the high mountains: but if you visit me more often, lovely Lycidas, the ash in the woods would yield to you, and the pine in the gardens. 69These things I remember, and how Thyrsis, beaten, contended in vain: from that time Corydon has been Corydon for us.