O Bandusian spring,
clearer than glass, worthy of sweet wine and flowers too,
tomorrow you'll receive the gift of a kid goat, whose head,
swollen with horns newly grown, gives promise of love and
battles; in vain: for this offspring of a playful flock
will stain your ice-cold waters with his crimson blood. The
harsh season of the blazing Dog Star is powerless to affect
you. You grant welcome coolness to oxen weary of the plow
and to the wandering herd. You too will become one of the
famous springs, when I sing of the oak tree perched upon
your hollow rocks, whence your babbling waters leap
forth.
- Horace