chews the pale herbage, or some heifer tracksamid the crowding herd. Now close, ye Nymphs,ye Nymphs of Dicte, close the forest-glades,if haply there may chance upon mine eyesthe white bull's wandering foot-prints: him belikefollowing the herd, or by green pasture lured,some kine may guide to the Gortynian stalls.Then sings he of the maid so wonder-struckwith the apples of the Hesperids, and thenwith moss-bound, bitter bark rings round the forms