but in the meadows shall the ram himself,now with soft flush of purple, now with tintof yellow saffron, teach his fleece to shine.While clothed in natural scarlet graze the lambs.“Such still, such ages weave ye, as ye run,”sang to their spindles the consenting Fatesby Destiny's unalterable decree.Assume thy greatness, for the time draws nigh,dear child of gods, great progeny of Jove!See how it totters—the world's orbed might,