Thou too those swollen udders yield,
That thy young ones may be fed,
Who, while thou browsest o’er the field,
Lie neglected in the shed;
Slumbering all the livelong day
At length with clamorous plaints they wake,
Thou t’ appease them wilt forsake
Ætna’s valleys ever gay.
Young Bromius and his jocund rout
Here their orgies ne’er repeat,
No thyrsus waves, no drums they beat;
Where the gurgling currents spout,
Here no vineyards yield delight,
Nor sport the nymphs on Nyssa’s height.