On the banks of the Sarca River there sang
a shepherd of the Sarca at the coming of Spring,
while pasturing his snow-white goats,
and weaving a little basket of light willow:
O fairest Phyllis, why do you tarry?
Why do you not come, O lovely Phyllis?
Do you see how Brionus, bearer of box trees, is calling,
and Lymphanus, his head blooming with olives?
Orchards and willow groves call to you,
and our flocks, miserable without you:
O fairest Phyllis, why do you tarry?
Already the woods are in blossom, the forest grows green,
here you will gather violets and red roses,
and weave a chaplet for your head;
here among hazel trees and oak groves
your frisky self will seek out kindly sleep;
here you will wash your feet in crystal waters:
O fairest Phyllis, why do you tarry?