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Damater! fruit-abounding ! grant this field Be duly wrought, and rich abundance yield.

Bind without waste, sheaf-binder ! lest one say, These men of fig-wood are not worth their pay.

Let the sheaf-hillock look to north or west; The corn, so lying, fills and ripens best.

Ye threshers ! let not sleep steal on your eyes At noon— for then the chaff most freely fies.

Up with the lark to reap, and cease as soon As the lark sleeps — but rest yourself at noon.

Happy the frog's life ! none, his drink to pour, He looks for — he has plenty evermore.

Boil, niggard steward ! the lentil; and take heed, Don't cut your hand — to split a cumin-seed.

Men toiling in the sun such songs befit ;
Your puling love, poor rustic little-wit !
Is only fit - to whisper in her ears,
When your old mother wakes as dawn appears.

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The poet addresses the poem to his friend Nicias, the physician,

and asserts that there is no remedy for love but the Muses. He then introduces Polypheme, sitting on a rock that overlooks the sea, and beguiling his care with song. The Cyclops reproaches Galatea with her pride and indifference ; states that he is aware she rejects his love because his features are not such as feminie delight to look on, but mentions his wealth, which he invites her to partake. He breaks into an expression of his passionate longing for her presence ; and blames his mother for not pleading his cause with the fair sea-nymph. He at last checks himself, and prudently resolves to desist from a vain pursuit; solacing himself with the conviction that other maidens look on him more favourably.

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Nicias! there is no remedy for love,
Except the Muses ; this alone doth prove
A sweet and gentle solace for the mind
Of love-sick man—not easy though to find.
Full knowledge of this truth I deem is thine,
Physician, and beloved of all the Nine !

Thus, Polypheme of yore, our Cyclops, found The power of song on love's uneasy wound; With the first down that budding youth discloses On cheek and chin, he doted—not with roses And apples for his love, and the trim curl To please her eye, but with delirious whirl, Neglecting all things else. Oft to the stall His sheep from pasture came without his call, While he from dawn mid sea-weeds and the spray Of Galatea sung, and pined away,

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