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.'