pr Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi silvestrem tenui musam meditaris avena: nos patriae finis et dulcia linquimus arva; nos patriam fugimus: tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra 5formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas.
O Meliboee, deus nobis haec otia fecit. namque erit ille mihi semper deus, illius aram saepe tener nostris ab ovilibus imbuet agnus. ille meas errare boves, ut cernis, et ipsum 10ludere quae vellem calamo permisit agresti.
Non equidem invideo; miror magis: undique totis usque adeo turbatur agris. en, ipse capellas protinus aeger ago; hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco. hic inter densas corylos modo namque gemellos, 15spem gregis, a! silice in nuda conixa reliquit. saepe malum hoc nobis, si mens non laeva fuisset, de caelo tactas memini praedicere quercus. sed tamen, iste deus qui sit, da, Tityre, nobis.
Title (explicits): P. Vergili Maronis Bucolicon liber MP: Bucolica GR
- 12turbatur Quintilian 1.4.28, Servius: -amur PR
You, Tityrus, lie under the canopy of a spreading beech, wooing the woodland Muse on slender reed, but we are leaving our country’s bounds and sweet fields. We are outcasts from our country; you, Tityrus, at ease beneath the shade, teach the woods to re-echo “fair Amaryllis.”
O Meliboeus, it is a god who gave us this peace—for a god he shall ever be to me; often shall a tender lamb from our folds stain his altar. Of his grace my kine roam, as you see, and I, their master, play what I will on my rustic pipe.
Well, I grudge you not—rather I marvel; such unrest is there on all sides in the land. See, heartsick, I myself am driving my goats along, and here, Tityrus, is one I scarce can lead. For here just now amid the thick hazels, after hard travail, she dropped twins, the hope of the flock, alas! on the naked flint. Often, I mind, this mishap was foretold me, had not my wits been dull, by the oaks struck from heaven. But still tell me, Tityrus, who is this god of yours?