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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528357" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Giant's Wooing</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Methinks all nature hath no cure for Love,<br>Plaster or unguent, Nicias, saving one;<br>And this is light and pleasant to a man,<br>Yet hard withal to compass-minstrelsy.<br>As well thou wottest, being thyself a leech,<br>And a prime favourite of those Sisters nine.<br>'Twas thus our Giant lived a life of ease,<br>Old Polyphemus, when, the down scarce seen<br>On lip and chin, he wooed his ocean nymph:<br>No curlypated rose-and-apple wooer,<br>But a fell madman, blind to all but love.<br>Oft from the green grass foldward fared his sheep<br>Unbid: while he upon the windy beach,<br>Singing his Galatea, sat and pined<br>From dawn to dusk, an ulcer at his heart:<br>Great Aphrodite's shaft had fixed it there.<br>Yet found he that one cure: he sate him down<br>On the tall cliff, and seaward looked, and sang:<br> <br>'White Galatea, why disdain thy love?<br>White as a pressed cheese, delicate as the lamb,<br>Wild as the heifer, soft as summer grapes!<br>If sweet sleep chain me, here thou walk'st at large;<br>If sweet sleep loose me, straightway thou art gone,<br>Scared like a sheep that sees the grey wolf near.<br>I loved thee, maiden, when thou cam'st long since,<br>To pluck the hyacinth-blossom on the fell,<br>Thou and my mother, piloted by me.<br>I saw thee, see thee still, from that day forth<br>For ever; but 'tis naught, ay naught, to thee.<br>I know, sweet maiden, why thou art so coy:<br>Shaggy and huge, a single eyebrow spans<br>From ear to ear my forehead, whence one eye<br>Gleams, and an o'erbroad nostril tops my lip.<br>Yet I, this monster, feed a thousand sheep<br>That yield me sweetest draughts at milking-tide:<br>In summer, autumn, or midwinter, still<br>Fails not my cheese; my milkpail aye o'erflows.<br>Then I can pipe as ne'er did Giant yet,<br>Singing our loves-ours, honey, thine and mine<br>At dead of night: and hinds I rear eleven<br>(Each with her fawn) and bearcubs four, for thee.<br>Oh come to me-thou shalt not rue the day<br>And let the mad seas beat against the shore!<br>'Twere sweet to haunt my cave the livelong night:<br>Laurel, and cypress tall, and ivy dun,<br>And vines of sumptuous fruitage, all are there:<br>And a cold spring that pine-clad Ætna flings<br>Down from, the white snow's midst, a draught for gods!<br>Who would not change for this the ocean-waves?<br> <br>'But thou mislik'st my hair? Well, oaken logs<br>Are here, and embers yet aglow with fire.<br>Burn (if thou wilt) my heart out, and mine eye,<br>Mine only eye wherein is my delight.<br>Oh why was I not born a finny thing,<br>To float unto thy side and kiss thy hand,<br>Denied thy lips-and bring thee lilies white<br>And crimson-petalled poppies' dainty bloom!<br>Nay-summer hath his flowers and autumn his;<br>I could not bring all these the selfsame day.<br>Lo, should some mariner hither oar his road,<br>Sweet, he shall teach me straightway how to swim,<br>That haply I may learn what bliss ye find<br>In your sea-homes. O Galatea, come<br>Forth from yon waves, and coming forth forget<br>(As I do, sitting here) to get thee home:<br>And feed my flocks and milk them, nothing loth,<br>And pour the rennet in to fix my cheese!<br> <br>'The blame's my mother's; she is false to me;<br>Spake thee ne'er yet one sweet word for my sake,<br>Though day by day she sees me pine and pine.<br>I'll feign strange throbbings in my head and feet<br>To anguish her-as I am anguished now.'<br> <br>O Cyclops, Cyclops, where are flown thy wits?<br>Go plait rush-baskets, lop the olive-boughs<br>To feed thy lambkins-'twere the shrewder part.<br>Chase not the recreant, milk the willing ewe:<br>The world hath Galateas fairer yet.<br> <br>'-Many a fair damsel bids me sport with her<br>The livelong night, and smiles if I give ear.<br>On land at least I still am somebody.'<br> <br>Thus did the Giant feed his love on song,<br>And gained more ease than may be bought with gold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Theocritus">Theocritus</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528357" data-title="The Giant's Wooing de Theocritus" data-description="Methinks all nature hath no cure for Love,
Plaster or unguent, Nicias, saving one;
And this is light and pleasant to a man,
Yet hard withal to compass-minstrelsy.
As well thou wottest, being thyself a leech,
And a prime favourite of those Sisters ..."></div>
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