Evening is here. Some pigeons cross the sky.
Nothing so well an amorous fever chains
As when with pipe to lip its soothing strains
Blend with the rush-grown stream's fresh melody.

In shade of plane-tree where at ease we lie
The grass is soft. Let, friend, that goat which feigns
Indifference to the trembling kid she weans,
Climb up the rock and browse the herbage nigh.

With seven unequal stems of hemlock made,
Well joined with wax, my flute, or sharply played
Or grave, will weep, or moan, or joyous sing.

Come. Try Silenus' art that knows no death,
And thy sad sighs of love will take to wing
Amidst thy sacred pipe's harmonious breath.