Now, by the nymphs! nor favour him nor me.
Thurian Sybartas owns the sheep in sight;

The goats Eumaras claims the Sybarite.

LACON.

You good-for-nothing babbler! answer this,

Who asked you whose the sheep were, mine or his?

COMATAS.

I vaunt not, and I speak the simple truth;

But you are very scurrilous, in sooth.

LACON.

Sing - if you have a song: don't kill with babble

Our friend here; by Apollo! how you gabble!

COMATAS.

Me more than Daphnis love the Muses true:

Two yearling kids to them I lately slew.

LACON.

Apollo loves me much; for him I rear
A goodly ram - his festival is near.

COMATAS.

I milk my goats, twin-bearing all but twain:

A sweet girl cries, “ Why milk alone, fond swain ?"

LACON.

Some twenty baskets Lacon fills with cheese,

And gets him kisses wheresoe'er he please.

COMATAS.

Me with sweet apples Clearista pelts,

While round her lips a honey-murmur melts.

LACON.

On me a blooming beauty fondly dotes,

Round whose white neck the hair bright-shining floats.

F

COMATAS.

With the screened garden-roses cannot vie

The common dog-rose, nor anemony.

LACON.

The mountain-apples most delicious are

Who crabbed beech-nuts would with them compare?

COMATAS.

I for my love will snare, and give to her
A ring-dove brooding on a juniper.

LACON.

Wool for a mantle will I give my dear,
Soon as my sober-suited sheep I shear.

COMATAS.

From the wild olive, bleaters! feed at will,

Where grow the tamarisks, on this sloping hill.

LACON.

Off from that oak Cynætha and Conarus!

Feed eastward-yonder where you see Phalarus.

COMATAS.

A cypress milk-pail for my girl I have,

And bowl-which old Praxiteles did grave.

LACON.

A hound, wolf-strangling keeper of the sheep,
A faithful guardian, for my love I keep.

COMATAS.

Locusts, that overleap my fences, spare

My vines

their shoots yet weak and tender are.

LACON.

Cicada! see this goatherd I provoke:

So to their toil ye wake the reaping folk.

COMATAS.

I hate the bush-tailed foxes-nightly troop,
That Mycon's vine-yard, grape-devouring, swoop.

LACON.

I hate the scarabs-air-borne host, that mow

Philonda's fig-trees, fig-devouring foe.

COMATAS.

Do you remember when I smote you, fellow,

How you did wriggle round the oak, and bellow?

LACON.

No! but I do remember when with scourge
Eumaras did your peccant humours purge.

COMATAS.

Some one, my Morson, into rage is dashing;
Go! from the tomb pluck gray squills-for a lashing.

LACON.

I too prick some one, Morson; do you take?
Hasten to Hales; and for sowbread rake.

COMATAS.

Flow Himera with milk, and Crathis flow

Purple with wine! and fruit on cresses grow!

LACON.

Fountain of Sybaris, to honey turn,

And fill with honeycombs the maiden's urn!