| Theocritus, Idylls (English) (XML Header) [genre: poetry] [word count] [lemma count] [Theoc. Id.]. | ||
| <<Theoc. Id. 11.1 | Theoc. Id. 11.63 (Greek) | >>Theoc. Id. 12.1 |
11.30 O well I wot pretty maid, for why thou shun’st me so,
One long shag eyebrow ear t o ear my forehead o’er doth go,
And but one eye beneath doth lie, and the nose stands wide on the lip;
Yet be as I may, still this I say, I feed full a thousand sheep,
And the milk to my hand’s the best i' the land, and my cheese ‘tis plenty alsó;
Come summer mild, come winter wild, my cheese-racks ever o’erflow.
And, for piping, none o’ my kin hereby can pipe like my piping,
And of thee and me, dear sweet-apple, in one song oft I sing,
Often at dead of night. And O, there’s gifts in store for thee,
Eleven fawns, all white-collárs, and cosset bear’s cubs four for thee. 11.42 O leave it be, the blue blue sea, to gasp an ‘t will o’ the shore,
And come ye away to me, to me; I’ll lay ye’ll find no ill store.
A sweeter night thou’lt pass i' the cave with me than away i' the brine;
There’s laurel and taper cypress, swart ivy and sweet-fruit vine,
And for thy drinking the cool watér woody Etna pours so free
For my delight from his snow so white, and a heav’nly draught it be.
Now who would choose the sea and his waves, and a home like this forgo? 11.50 But if so be the master o’ t too shag to thy deeming show,
There’s wood in store, and on the floor a fire that smoulders still,
And if thou would’st be burning, mayst burn my soul an thou will,
Yea, and the dear’st of all my goods, my one dear eye. O me!
That I was not born with fins to be diving down to thee,
To kiss, if not thy lips, at least hey hand, and give thee posies
Of poppies trim with scarlet rim or snow-white winter-roses!
And if a stranger a-shipboard come, e’en now, my little sweeting,
E’en now to swim I’ll learn of him, and then shall I be weeting
Wherefore it be ye folk o’ the sea are so life to be living below. 11.63 Come forth and away, my pretty fay, and when thou comest, O
Forget, as he that sitteth here, they ways again to go;
Feed flock wi’ me, draw milk wi’ me, and if ‘t my darling please,
Pour rennet tart the curds to part and set the good white cheese.
‘Tis all my mother’s doing; she sore to blame hath bin;
Never good word hath spoke you o’ me, though she sees me waxing so thin.
I’ll tell her of throbbing feet, note I’ll tell her of aching eyne;
I am fain that misery be hers sith misery be mine. 11.72 O Cyclops, Cyclops, where be your wits gone flying?
Up, fetch you loppings for your lambs, or go a withy-plying;
The wearier’s oft the wiser man, and that there’s no denying.
Milk the staying, leave the straying, chase not them that shy;
Mayhap you’ll find e’en sweeter Galateans by and by.
There’s many a jill says ‘Come an you will and play all night wi’ me,’
And he laugh I hear when I give ear is soft and sweet as can be;
E’en I, ‘tis plain, be somebody, ashore, if not ‘I the sea. 11.80 Thus did Polyphemus tend his love-sickness with music, and got more comfort thereout than he could have had for any gold.
One long shag eyebrow ear t o ear my forehead o’er doth go,
And but one eye beneath doth lie, and the nose stands wide on the lip;
Yet be as I may, still this I say, I feed full a thousand sheep,
And the milk to my hand’s the best i' the land, and my cheese ‘tis plenty alsó;
Come summer mild, come winter wild, my cheese-racks ever o’erflow.
And, for piping, none o’ my kin hereby can pipe like my piping,
And of thee and me, dear sweet-apple, in one song oft I sing,
Often at dead of night. And O, there’s gifts in store for thee,
Eleven fawns, all white-collárs, and cosset bear’s cubs four for thee. 11.42 O leave it be, the blue blue sea, to gasp an ‘t will o’ the shore,
And come ye away to me, to me; I’ll lay ye’ll find no ill store.
A sweeter night thou’lt pass i' the cave with me than away i' the brine;
There’s laurel and taper cypress, swart ivy and sweet-fruit vine,
And for thy drinking the cool watér woody Etna pours so free
For my delight from his snow so white, and a heav’nly draught it be.
Now who would choose the sea and his waves, and a home like this forgo? 11.50 But if so be the master o’ t too shag to thy deeming show,
There’s wood in store, and on the floor a fire that smoulders still,
And if thou would’st be burning, mayst burn my soul an thou will,
Yea, and the dear’st of all my goods, my one dear eye. O me!
That I was not born with fins to be diving down to thee,
To kiss, if not thy lips, at least hey hand, and give thee posies
Of poppies trim with scarlet rim or snow-white winter-roses!
And if a stranger a-shipboard come, e’en now, my little sweeting,
E’en now to swim I’ll learn of him, and then shall I be weeting
Wherefore it be ye folk o’ the sea are so life to be living below. 11.63 Come forth and away, my pretty fay, and when thou comest, O
Forget, as he that sitteth here, they ways again to go;
Feed flock wi’ me, draw milk wi’ me, and if ‘t my darling please,
Pour rennet tart the curds to part and set the good white cheese.
‘Tis all my mother’s doing; she sore to blame hath bin;
Never good word hath spoke you o’ me, though she sees me waxing so thin.
I’ll tell her of throbbing feet, note I’ll tell her of aching eyne;
I am fain that misery be hers sith misery be mine. 11.72 O Cyclops, Cyclops, where be your wits gone flying?
Up, fetch you loppings for your lambs, or go a withy-plying;
The wearier’s oft the wiser man, and that there’s no denying.
Milk the staying, leave the straying, chase not them that shy;
Mayhap you’ll find e’en sweeter Galateans by and by.
There’s many a jill says ‘Come an you will and play all night wi’ me,’
And he laugh I hear when I give ear is soft and sweet as can be;
E’en I, ‘tis plain, be somebody, ashore, if not ‘I the sea. 11.80 Thus did Polyphemus tend his love-sickness with music, and got more comfort thereout than he could have had for any gold.
| Theocritus, Idylls (English) (XML Header) [genre: poetry] [word count] [lemma count] [Theoc. Id.]. | ||
| <<Theoc. Id. 11.1 | Theoc. Id. 11.63 (Greek) | >>Theoc. Id. 12.1 |
