_This Idyl begins with a ribald debate between two hirelings_, _who_, _at
last_, _compete with each other in a match of pastoral song_. _No other
idyl of Theocritus is so frankly true to the rough side of rustic
manners_. _The scene is in Southern Italy_.
* * * * *
_Comatas_. Goats of mine, keep clear of that notorious shepherd of
Sibyrtas, that Lacon; he stole my goat-skin yesterday.
_Lacon_. Will ye never leave the well-head? Off, my lambs, see ye not
Comatas; him that lately stole my shepherd’s pipe?
_Comatas_. What manner of pipe might that be, for when gat’st _thou_ a
pipe, thou slave of Sibyrtas? Why does it no more suffice thee to keep a
flute of straw, and whistle with Corydon?
_Lacon_. What pipe, free sir? why, the pipe that Lycon gave me. And
what manner of goat-skin hadst thou, that Lacon made off with? Tell me,
Comatas, for truly even thy master, Eumarides, had never a goat-skin to
sleep in.
_Comatas_. ’Twas the skin that Crocylus gave me, the dappled one, when
he sacrificed the she-goat to the nymphs; but thou, wretch, even then
wert wasting with envy, and now, at last, thou hast stripped me bare!
_Lacon_. Nay verily, so help me Pan of the seashore, it was not Lacon
the son of Calaethis that filched the coat of skin. If I lie, sirrah,
may I leap frenzied down this rock into the Crathis!
_Comatas_. Nay verily, my friend, so help me these nymphs of the mere
(and ever may they be favourable, as now, and kind to me), it was not
Comatas that pilfered thy pipe.
_Lacon_. If I believe thee, may I suffer the afflictions of Daphnis!
But see, if thou carest to stake a kid—though indeed ’tis scarce worth my
while—then, go to, I will sing against thee, and cease not, till thou
dust cry ‘enough!’
_Comatas_. _The sow defied Athene_! See, there is staked the kid, go
to, do thou too put a fatted lamb against him, for thy stake.
_Lacon_. Thou fox, and where would be our even betting then? Who ever
chose hair to shear, in place of wool? and who prefers to milk a filthy
bitch, when he can have a she-goat, nursing her first kid?
_Comatas_. Why, he that deems himself as sure of getting the better of
his neighbour as thou dost, a wasp that buzzes against the cicala. But
as it is plain thou thinkst the kid no fair stake, lo, here is this
he-goat. Begin the match!
_Lacon_. No such haste, thou art not on fire! More sweetly wilt thou
sing, if thou wilt sit down beneath the wild olive tree, and the groves
in this place. Chill water falls there, drop by drop, here grows the
grass, and here a leafy bed is strown, and here the locusts prattle.
_Comatas_. Nay, no whit am I in haste, but I am sorely vexed, that thou
shouldst dare to look me straight in the face, thou whom I used to teach
while thou wert still a child. See where gratitude goes! As well rear
wolf-whelps, breed hounds, that they may devour thee!
_Lacon_. And what good thing have I to remember that I ever learned or
heard from thee, thou envious thing, thou mere hideous manikin!
. . . . .
But come this way, come, and thou shalt sing thy last of country song.
_Comatas_. That way I will not go! Here be oak trees, and here the
galingale, and sweetly here hum the bees about the hives. There are two
wells of chill water, and on the tree the birds are warbling, and the
shadow is beyond compare with that where thou liest, and from on high the
pine tree pelts us with her cones.
_Lacon_. Nay, but lambs’ wool, truly, and fleeces, shalt thou tread
here, if thou wilt but come,—fleeces more soft than sleep, but the
goat-skins beside thee stink—worse than thyself. And I will set a great
bowl of white milk for the nymphs, and another will I offer of sweet
olive oil.
_Comatas_. Nay, but an if thou wilt come, thou shalt tread here the soft
feathered fern, and flowering thyme, and beneath thee shall be strown the
skins of she-goats, four times more soft than the fleeces of thy lambs.
And I will set out eight bowls of milk for Pan, and eight bowls full of
the richest honeycombs.
_Lacon_. Thence, where thou art, I pray thee, begin the match, and there
sing thy country song, tread thine own ground and keep thine oaks to
thyself. But who, who shall judge between us? Would that Lycopas, the
neatherd, might chance to come this way!
_Comatas_. I want nothing with him, but that man, if thou wilt, that
woodcutter we will call, who is gathering those tufts of heather near
thee. It is Morson.
_Lacon_. Let us shout, then!
_Comatas_. Call thou to him.
_Lacon_. Ho, friend, come hither and listen for a little while, for we
two have a match to prove which is the better singer of country song. So
Morson, my friend, neither judge me too kindly, no, nor show him favour.
_Comatas_. Yes, dear Morson, for the nymphs’ sake neither lean in thy
judgment to Comatas, nor, prithee, favour _him_. The flock of sheep thou
seest here belongs to Sibyrtas of Thurii, and the goats, friend, that
thou beholdest are the goats of Eumarides of Sybaris.
_Lacon_. Now, in the name of Zeus did any one ask thee, thou
make-mischief, who owned the flock, I or Sibyrtas? What a chatterer thou
art!
_Comatas_. Best of men, I am for speaking the whole truth, and boasting
never, but thou art too fond of cutting speeches.
_Lacon_. Come, say whatever thou hast to say, and let the stranger get
home to the city alive; oh, Paean, what a babbler thou art, Comatas!