Venus herself henceforth will choose
Only in field and farm to walk,
And Cupid but the language use
Which plough-boy lovers talk.
O what a ploughman I could be!
How deep the furrows I would trace,
If while I toiled, I might but see
My mistress' smiling face!
A farmer true, I'd guide my team
Of barren steers o'er fruitful lands,
Nor murmur at the noon-day beam,
Or my soft, blistered hands.
Once fair Apollo fed the flocks
Of King Admetus, like a swain;
Little availed his flowing locks,
His lyre was little gain.
No virtuous herb to reach that ill
His heavenly arts of healing knew;
For love made vain his famous skill,
And all his art o'er-threw.
Himself his herds afield he drove,
Or where the cooling waters stray;
Himself the willow baskets wove,
And strained out curds and whey.
Oft would his heavenly shoulders bear
A calf adown some pathless place;
And oft Diana met him there,
And blushed at his disgrace.
O often, if his voice divine
Echoed the mountain glens along,
Out-burst the loud, audacious kine,
And bellowing drowned his song.
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