_Comatas_. The Muses love me better far than the minstrel Daphnis; but a
little while ago I sacrificed two young she-goats to the Muses.
_Lacon_. Yea, and me too Apollo loves very dearly, and a noble ram I
rear for Apollo, for the feast of the Carnea, look you, is drawing nigh.
_Comatas_. The she-goats that I milk have all borne twins save two. The
maiden saw me, and ‘alas,’ she cried, ‘dost thou milk alone?’
_Lacon_. Ah, ah, but Lacon here hath nigh twenty baskets full of cheese,
and Lacon lies with his darling in the flowers!
_Comatas_. Clearista, too, pelts the goatherd with apples as he drives
past his she-goats, and a sweet word she murmurs.
_Lacon_. And wild with love am I too, for my fair young darling, that
meets the shepherd, with the bright hair floating round the shapely neck.
_Comatas_. Nay, ye may not liken dog-roses to the rose, or wind-flowers
to the roses of the garden; by the garden walls their beds are
blossoming.
_Lacon_. Nay, nor wild apples to acorns, for acorns are bitter in the
oaken rind, but apples are sweet as honey.
_Comatas_. Soon will I give my maiden a ring-dove for a gift; I will
take it from the juniper tree, for there it is brooding.
_Lacon_. But I will give my darling a soft fleece to make a cloak, a
free gift, when I shear the black ewe.
_Comatas_. Forth from the wild olive, my bleating she-goats, feed here
where the hillside slopes, and the tamarisks grove.
_Lacon_. Conarus there, and Cynaetha, will you never leave the oak?
Graze here, where Phalarus feeds, where the hillside fronts the dawn.
_Comatas_. Ay, and I have a vessel of cypress wood, and a mixing bowl,
the work of Praxiteles, and I hoard them for my maiden.
_Lacon_. I too have a dog that loves the flock, the dog to strangle
wolves; him I am giving to my darling to chase all manner of wild beasts.
_Comatas_. Ye locusts that overleap our fence, see that ye harm not our
vines, for our vines are young.
_Lacon_. Ye cicalas, see how I make the goatherd chafe: even so,
methinks, do ye vex the reapers.
_Comatas_. I hate the foxes, with their bushy brushes, that ever come at
evening, and eat the grapes of Micon.
_Lacon_. And I hate the lady-birds that devour the figs of Philondas,
and flit down the wind.
_Comatas_. Dost thou not remember how I cudgelled thee, and thou didst
grin and nimbly writhe, and catch hold of yonder oak?
_Lacon_. That I have no memory of, but how Eumarides bound thee there,
upon a time, and flogged thee through and through, that I do very well
remember.
_Comatas_. Already, Morson, some one is waxing bitter, dust thou see no
sign of it? Go, go, and pluck, forthwith, the squills from some old
wife’s grave.
_Lacon_. And I too, Morson, I make some one chafe, and thou dost
perceive it. Be off now to the Hales stream, and dig cyclamen.
_Comatas_. Let Himera flow with milk instead of water, and thou,
Crathis, run red with wine, and all thy reeds bear apples.
_Lacon_. Would that the fount of Sybaris may flow with honey, and may
the maiden’s pail, at dawning, be dipped, not in water, but in the
honeycomb.
_Comatas_. My goats eat cytisus, and goatswort, and tread the lentisk
shoots, and lie at ease among the arbutus.
_Lacon_. But my ewes have honey-wort to feed on, and luxuriant creepers
flower around, as fair as roses.
_Comatas_. I love not Alcippe, for yesterday she did not kiss me, and
take my face between her hands, when I gave her the dove.
_Lacon_. But deeply I love my darling, for a kind kiss once I got, in
return for the gift of a shepherd’s pipe.
_Comatas_. Lacon, it never was right that pyes should contend with the
nightingale, nor hoopoes with swans, but thou, unhappy swain, art ever
for contention.
_Morson’s Judgement_. I bid the shepherd cease. But to thee, Comatas,
Morson presents the lamb. And thou, when thou hast sacrificed her to the
nymphs, send Morson, anon, a goodly portion of her flesh.
_Comatas_. I will, by Pan. Now leap, and snort, my he-goats, all the
herd of you, and see here how loud I ever will laugh, and exult over
Lacon, the shepherd, for that, at last, I have won the lamb. See, I will
leap sky high with joy. Take heart, my horned goats, to-morrow I will
dip you all in the fountain of Sybaris. Thou white he-goat, I will beat
thee if thou dare to touch one of the herd before I sacrifice the lamb to
the nymphs. There he is at it again! Call me Melanthius, {34} not
Comatas, if I do not cudgel thee.