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Βότρυς μελαίνης ἀμπέλου παρωρείῃ
ἀπεκρέμαντο. τοὺς δὲ ποικίλη πλήρεις
ἰδοῦσα κερδὼ πολλάκις μὲν ὡρμήθη
πηδῶσα ποσσὶν πορφυρῆς θιγεῖν ὥρης·
ἦν γὰρ πέπειρος κεἰς τρυγητὸν ἀκμαίη.
κάμνουσα δ᾽ ἄλλως, οὐ γὰρ ἴσχυε ψαύειν,
παρῆλθεν οὕτω βουκολοῦσα τὴν λύπην·
ὄμφαξ βότρυς, οὐ πέπειρος, ὡς ᾤμην.”

On a mountainside a cluster of black grape were hanging down. After having often seen them full, a shifty one-bent-on-profit felt the urge to reach the dark-purple fruit by jumping from her feet. For it was ripe and at peak-time for the harvest. She, however, struggling in vain -- for she didn't have the strength to touch them -- passed them up, feeding her pain in this way: "The cluster is unripe grape, not ripe as I was supposing."