So learn to look for partners meet,Shun lofty things, nor raise your aimsAbove your fortune. Come then, sweet,My last of flames(For never shall another fairEnslave me), learn a tune, to singWith that dear voice: to music careShall yield its sting.The gales of Thrace, that hush the unquiet sea,Spring's comrades, on the bellying canvas blow:Clogg'd earth and brawling streams alike are freeFrom winter's weight of snow.Wailing her Itys in that sad, sad strain,Builds the poor bird, reproach to after timeOf Cecrops' house, for bloody vengeance ta'enOn foul barbaric crime.The keepers of fat lambkins chant their lovesTo silvan reeds, all in the grassy lea,And pleasure Him who tends the flocks and grovesOf dark-leaved Arcady.