Even with such snowy bribe of wool

  Even with such snowy bribe of wool, if ear

  May trust the tale, Pan, God of Arcady,

  Snared and beguiled thee, Luna, calling thee

  To the deep woods; nor thou didst spurn his call.

    But who for milk hath longing, must himself

  Carry lucerne and lotus-leaves enow

  With salt herbs to the cote, whence more they love

  The streams, more stretch their udders, and give back

  A subtle taste of saltness in the milk.

  Many there be who from their mothers keep

  The new-born kids, and straightway bind their mouths

  With iron-tipped muzzles. What they milk at dawn,

  Or in the daylight hours, at night they press;

  What darkling or at sunset, this ere morn

  They bear away in baskets- for to town

  The shepherd hies him- or with dash of salt

  Just sprinkle, and lay by for winter use.