Book VII, 196: On a Cicada

Noisy cicada, drunk with dew drops, thou singest thy rustic ditty that fills the wilderness with voice, and seated on the edge of the leaves, striking with saw-like legs thy sunburnt skin thou shrillest music like the lyre’s. But sing, dear, some new tune to gladden the woodland nymphs, strike up some strain responsive to Pan’s pipe, that I may escape from Love and snatch a little midday sleep, reclining here beneath the shady plane-tree.