Sweet fruit to be my Delia's willing care,
While our full corn-crop in the sultry field
Stands ripe and dry! O, but my dreams were fair!

She in the vine-vat will our clusters press,
And tread the rich must with her dancing feet;
She oft my sheep will number, oft caress
Some pretty, prattling slave with kisses sweet.

She offers Pan due tributes of our wealth,
Grapes for the vine, and for a field of corn
Wheat in the ear, or for the sheep-fold's health
Some frugal feast is to his altar borne.

Of all my house let her the mistress be!
I am displaced and give not one command!
Then let Messala come! From each choice tree
Let Delia pluck him fruit with her soft hand!

To serve and please so worshipful a guest,
She spends her utmost art and anxious care;
Asks his least wish, and spreads her dainty best,
Herself the hostess and hand-maiden fair.

Mad hope! The storm-winds bore away that dream
Far as Armenia's perfume-breathing bids.
Great Venus! Did I at thy shrine blaspheme?
Am I accursed for rash and impious words?

Had I, polluted, touched some altar pure,