Dry these isles, flat upon the rolling sea, and unfit the search for water for an active maid. Better sport by far the deer-hunt, flashing white tail in the sunlight, fleet deer running through the trees, fleet my feet in chase, joy in my hair streaming from the wind, water wind-pulled from my eyes salt and innocent. Long the cast, half-glimpsed the deer, at rest, wearied, beyond the meady hill. Victory in my mouth galls, wormwood, bitter, bitter, for upon the drowsy green bounds long-eared and wild no deer, but horse man, shaggy satyr, blowing blood, riotous, angry, rampant, hair matted and odorous.
No fit sport for a comely maid, to comb ratted hair smooth, scratch flea bites with gentle, graceful fingers, curl pale legs high upon rutting, plunging, horseflesh back. Again I ran, breath high in my throat, no space for fear, fleet my feet through the woods, hard the amorous hooves behind, horsey flesh lunging after, and breaking above the waves I wailed. He heard, Sea-father, sweet-smelling tamer of horses, rose curly-bearded from the tossing sea, cast easy, earth-shaking trident to flesh my swinous swain. Alone we stood, upon the shore, I, high breathing, glowing, long my legs and dewed, he, laughing, mocking, flat-toothed, clean-limbed; my maiden head reeled. Fresh flowed his water, unpinned by trident-cast, from rocks to sea it ran, and I, clean, fresh, and daring, brought sweet news to stretched and a-thirst my father and crew, soothed their throats with water-speech, brightened their eyes with deer-talk.