Thyrsis
Thyrsis: — Nymphs, who dwell among the waters of the Rhine, Pan, gay keeper of flocks, twi-horned Satyrs, hear me! Grant that Phyllis may love me more than she loves Amynta, or swiftly heal me with death.
Alcon: — O father, O Faunus, often we sang your love; I hung a pine-wreath upon your horns, and when Lydia shall bind your brows with crimson garlands, let her not scorn me for ever.
Thyrsis: — Hills, unshorn hills, soft meadows, Rhine flowing gently by, tell me, did Phyllis teach you to love her when she sang, or did she hurt you with her beauty?
Alcon: — Pools, mossy pools, you touch her face and her white limbs; tell me, did Galatea burn you with the fire of love? Or did she sit upon the green bank, playing with the glass-blue ripples?
Thyrsis: — Whiter than swans, softer than the vine, fairer than a garden with fountains, Iolas, my love, came to me. I sang my love with the slender pipe. He mingled kisses with my singing.
Alcon: — Nobler than violets, gentler than summer air, kinder than the shadowing plane-tree, Lycoris tended flocks with me, wandered with me through the meads, closer embraced than vine and elm.
Thyrsis: — The fields break in a wave of blossoms, the air sounds as with echoes from sea-shells; the woods are green, the olive-tree buds. This is the likeness of laughing Lycidas.
Alcon: — The light rises from Olympus, coloured like a crocus; the ice gleams in the white frosts. The dew drips from a garden of crimson roses; this is the likeness of mournful Varus.
Thyrsis: — Here are gentle winds, cone-bearing cypresses, and caves; here the little rills flow through the grasses. Here Lycidas wove baskets from rushes, and slew the frightened deer with his shafts.
Alcon: — Now the cold pools and the pastures, Varus, delight me no more; the Gods here are of no account. Come here to me, and the cold pools and the pastures shall gladden me; nothing shall be dearer to me than these fields.
Thyrsis: — Let Iolas bring back my gladness, let Phyllis no longer scorn my piping; then if Orithyia bear wreaths in her hands, O Faunus, I shall deck your horns with these gifts.
Alcon: — If the milky rivers flow in these banks, if the genista is yellow with honey, if the fleece is purple with the juice of Tyre, Lydia, then you shall hear my song.
Alcon: — O father, O Faunus, often we sang your love; I hung a pine-wreath upon your horns, and when Lydia shall bind your brows with crimson garlands, let her not scorn me for ever.
Thyrsis: — Hills, unshorn hills, soft meadows, Rhine flowing gently by, tell me, did Phyllis teach you to love her when she sang, or did she hurt you with her beauty?
Alcon: — Pools, mossy pools, you touch her face and her white limbs; tell me, did Galatea burn you with the fire of love? Or did she sit upon the green bank, playing with the glass-blue ripples?
Thyrsis: — Whiter than swans, softer than the vine, fairer than a garden with fountains, Iolas, my love, came to me. I sang my love with the slender pipe. He mingled kisses with my singing.
Alcon: — Nobler than violets, gentler than summer air, kinder than the shadowing plane-tree, Lycoris tended flocks with me, wandered with me through the meads, closer embraced than vine and elm.
Thyrsis: — The fields break in a wave of blossoms, the air sounds as with echoes from sea-shells; the woods are green, the olive-tree buds. This is the likeness of laughing Lycidas.
Alcon: — The light rises from Olympus, coloured like a crocus; the ice gleams in the white frosts. The dew drips from a garden of crimson roses; this is the likeness of mournful Varus.
Thyrsis: — Here are gentle winds, cone-bearing cypresses, and caves; here the little rills flow through the grasses. Here Lycidas wove baskets from rushes, and slew the frightened deer with his shafts.
Alcon: — Now the cold pools and the pastures, Varus, delight me no more; the Gods here are of no account. Come here to me, and the cold pools and the pastures shall gladden me; nothing shall be dearer to me than these fields.
Thyrsis: — Let Iolas bring back my gladness, let Phyllis no longer scorn my piping; then if Orithyia bear wreaths in her hands, O Faunus, I shall deck your horns with these gifts.
Alcon: — If the milky rivers flow in these banks, if the genista is yellow with honey, if the fleece is purple with the juice of Tyre, Lydia, then you shall hear my song.
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