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Before thy feet, each day.

Now at length is come the Summer,And the early fly so busyDraws me from my pleasing slumbersAt the first-born morning-glimmer.Mercilessly then returns she,Though the half-aroused one oftenScares her from him with impatience,And she lures her shameless sisters,So that from my weary eyelidsKindly sleep ere long is driven.From my couch then boldly spring I,And I seek the darling Muses,in the beechen-grove I find them,Full of pieasure to receive me;And to the tormenting insectsOwe I many a golden hour.Thus be ye, unwelcome beings,Highly valued by the poet,As the flies my numbers tell of.