From Vergil's Tenth Eclogue

Melodious Arethusa, o'er my verse

Shed thou once more the spirit of thy stream:

Who denies verse to Gallus? So, when thou

Glidest beneath the green and purple gleam

Of Syracusan waters, mayst thou flow

Unmingled with the bitter Doric dew!

Begin, and, whilst the goats are browsing now

The soft leaves, in our way let us pursue

The melancholy loves of Gallus. List!

We sing not to the dead: the wild woods knew

His sufferings, and their echoes...

Young Naiads,...in what far woodlands wild

Wandered ye when unworthy love possessed

Your Gallus? Not where Pindus is up-piled,

Nor where Parnassus' sacred mount, nor where

Aonian Aganippe expands...

The laurels and the myrtle-copses dim.

The pine-encircled mountain, Maenalus,

The cold crags of Lycaeus, weep for him;

And Sylvan, crowned with rustic coronals,

Came shaking in his speed the budding wands

And heavy lilies which he bore: we knew

Pan the Arcadian.

...

'What madness is this, Gallus? Thy heart's care

With willing steps pursues another there.'