aspice, aratra iugo referunt suspensa iuvenci, et sol crescentis decedens duplicat umbras: me tamen urit amor; quis enim modus adsit amori? a, Corydon, Corydon, quae te dementia cepit! semiputata tibi frondosa vitis in ulmo est.
See, the bullocks drag home by the yoke the hanging plough, and the retiring sun doubles the lengthening shadows. Yet love still burns in me; for what bound can be set to love? Ah, Corydon, Corydon, what madness has gripped you? Your vine is but half-pruned on the leafy elm.
final_alignments\Virgil_Eclogues.json