BATTUS. Ah, wretched, Ægon! Thy poor kine will die, Even the pipe, which thou didst whilom make, CORYDON. No! by the Nymphs! He gave it me the day The songs of Pyrrhus and dear Glauca's lays Ate eighty cakes; where from the mountain's heel Shouted the women, and the cowherd smiled. BATTUS. Sweet Amaryllis! Though by death defiled, CORYDON. Take heart; there will be yet a brighter morn. While there is life there's hope; the dead, I ween, Are hopeless. One while Zeus shines out serene, Another while is hid in mist and show'r. BATTUS. I do take heart. But see! Yon calves devour CORYDON. Hist! To the hill, Cymætha! Don't you hear? If you don't get away, by Pan! I swear I will so give it you! Now only look! BATTUS. Here, Corydon! A thorn has wounded me- CORYDON. Ay! I have hold of it. See! Here it is! RATTUS. How small a wound tames man so tall as this! CORYDON. Unshod you must not on the mountain go; For on the mountains thorns and prickles grow. IDYL V. COMATAS AND LACON. ARGUMENT. A goatherd and a shepherd, both hirelings, assail each other with vile reproaches. They challenge one another to sing for a wager; and a wood-gatherer is called to decide between them. Comatas obtains the prize. |