The God of the Gardens, III

Ho, you sly imps! Of dog, of traps, beware!
As guardian here, I would not, for my sake,
Have one pretending garlic bulb to take
Plunder my fruit groves nor my grapevines spare.

Below, the planter mows his field, from where
He spies you; if he comes here, by my stake!
With hard wood wielded by his arm he'll make
Your loins well smoke, whate'er a God may care.

Quick, take the left-hand path, and with it wind
Till at the hedge's end a beech you find;
Then heed the word one slips into your ear:

A negligent Priapus lives near by;
His arbor pillars you can see from here,
Where blushing grapes in shade-wrapped greenery lie.