Theocritus Part 3

CORYDON.

--And by these bellowings his kine proclaim how sore they're vexed.

BATTUS.

Poor kine! they've found their master a sorry knave indeed.

CORYDON.

They're poor enough, I grant you: they have not heart to feed.

BATTUS.

Look at that heifer! sure there's naught, save bare bones, left of her.

Pray, does she browse on dewdrops, as doth the gra.s.shopper?

CORYDON.

Not she, by heaven! She pastures now by aesarus' glades, And handfuls fair I pluck her there of young and green gra.s.s-blades; Now bounds about Latymnus, that gathering-place of shades.

BATTUS.

That bull again, the red one, my word but he is lean!

I wish the Sybarite burghers aye may offer to the queen Of heaven as pitiful a beast: those burghers are so mean!

CORYDON.

Yet to the Salt Lake's edges I drive him, I can swear; Up Physcus, up Neaethus' side--he lacks not victual there, With dittany and endive and foxglove for his fare.

BATTUS.

Well, well! I pity aegon. His cattle, go they must To rack and ruin, all because vain-glory was his l.u.s.t.

The pipe that erst he fas.h.i.+oned is doubtless scored with rust?

CORYDON.

Nay, by the Nymphs! That pipe he left to me, the self-same day He made for Pisa: I am too a minstrel in my way: Well the flute-part in '_Pyrrhus_' and in '_Glauca_' can I play.

I sing too '_Here's to Croton_' and '_Zacynthus O 'tis fair_,'

And '_Eastward to Lacinium_:'--the bruiser Milo there His single self ate eighty loaves; there also did he pull Down from its mountain-dwelling, by one hoof grasped, a bull, And gave it Amaryllis: the maidens screamed with fright; As for the owner of the bull he only laughed outright.

BATTUS.

Sweet Amaryllis! thou alone, though dead, art unforgot.

Dearer than thou, whose light is quenched, my very goats are not.

Oh for the all-unkindly fate that's fallen to my lot!

CORYDON.

Cheer up, brave lad! tomorrow may ease thee of thy pain: Aye for the living are there hopes, past' hoping are the slain: And now Zeus sends us suns.h.i.+ne, and now he sends us rain.

BATTUS.

I'm better. Beat those young ones off! E'en now their teeth attack That olive's shoots, the graceless brutes! Back, with your white face, back!

CORYDON.

Back to thy hill, Cymaetha! Great Pan, how deaf thou art!

I shall be with thee presently, and in the end thou'lt smart.

I warn thee, keep thy distance. Look, up she creeps again!

Oh were my hare-crook in nay hand, I'd give it to her then!

BATTUS.

For heaven's sake, Corydon, look here! Just now a bramble-spike Ran, there, into my instep--and oh how deep they strike, Those lancewood-shafts! A murrain light on that calf, I say!

I got it gaping after her. Canst thou discern it, pray?

CORYDON.

Ay, ay; and here I have it, safe in my finger-nails.

BATTUS.

Eh! at how slight a matter how tall a warrior quails!

CORYDON.

Ne'er range the hill-crest, Battus, all sandal-less and bare: Because the thistle and the thorn lift aye their plumed heads there.

BATTUS.

--Say, Corydon, does that old man we wot of (tell me please!) Still haunt the dark-browed little girl whom once he used to tease?

CORYDON.

Ay my poor boy, that doth he: I saw them yesterday Down by the byre; and, trust me, loving enough were they.

BATTUS.

Well done, my veteran light-o'-love! In deeming thee mere man, I wronged thy sire: some Satyr he, or an uncouth-limbed Pan.

IDYLL V.

The Battle of the Bards.

_COMETAS. LACON. MORSON_.

COMETAS.

Goats, from a shepherd who stands here, from Lacon, keep away: Sibyrtas owns him; and he stole my goatskin yesterday.

LACON.

Hi! lambs! avoid yon fountain. Have ye not eyes to see Cometas, him who filched a pipe but two days back from me?

COMETAS.

Sibyrtas' bondsman own a pipe? whence gotst thou that, and how?

Tootling through straws with Corydon mayhap's beneath thee now?

LACON.

'Twas Lycon's gift, your highness. But pray, Cometas, say, What is that skin wherewith thou saidst that Lacon walked away?

Why, thy lord's self had ne'er a skin whereon his limbs to lay.

COMETAS.

The skin that Crocylus gave me, a dark one streaked with white, The day he slew his she-goat. Why, thou wert ill with spite, Then, my false friend; and thou would'st end by beggaring me quite.