Thy life, Cydilla, has at all times been A ceremony: this young man's Discovered by free impulse, not couched in forms Worn and made smooth by prudent folk long dead. I love Hipparchus for his wave-like brightness; He wastes himself, but till his flash is gone I shall be ever glad to hear him laugh: Nor could one make a Spartan of him even Were one the Spartan with a will to do it. Yet had there been no more than what is told, Thou wouldst not now be lending ear to me. Cydilla: Hearing such things, I think of my poor son, Which makes me far too sad to smile at folly. Damon: There, let me tell thee all just as it happened, And of thy son I shall be speaking soon. Cydilla: Delphis! Alas, are his companions still No better than such ne'er-do-wells? I thought His life was sager now, though he has killed My hopes of seeing him a councillor. Damon: How thou art quick to lay claim to a sorrow! Should I have come so eagerly to thee If all there was to tell thee were such poor news? Cydilla: Forgive me; well know I there is no end To Damon's kindness; my poor boy has proved it; Could but his father so have understood him! Damon: Let lie the sad contents of vanished years; Why with complaints reproach the helpless dead? Thy husband ne'er will cross thy hopes again. Come, think of what a sky made yesterday The worthy dream of thrice divine Apollo! Hipparchus' plan was, we should take the road (As, when such mornings tempt me, is my wont) And cross the hills, along the coast, toward Mylae. He in disguise, a younger handier Chloe, Would lead my mule; must brown his face and arms: And thereon straight to wake her he was gone. Their voices from her cabin crossed the yard; He swears those parts of her are still well made Which she keeps too well hidden when about;-- And she, no little pleased; that interlards, Between her exclamations at his figure, Reproof of gallantries half-laughed at hers. Anon she titters as he dons her dress Doubtless with pantomime-- Head-carriage and hip-swagger. A wench, more conscious of her sex than grace, He then rejoined me, changed beyond belief, Roguish as vintage makes them; bustling helps Or hinders Chloe harness to the mule;-- In fine bewitching both her age and mine. The life that in such fellows runs to waste Is like a gust that pulls about spring trees And spoils your hope of fruit, while it delights The sense with bloom and odour scattered, mingled With salt spume savours from a crested offing. The sun was not long up when we set forth And, coming to the deeply shadowed gate, Found catchpolls lurked there, true to his surmise. Them he, his beard disguised like face-ache, sauced; (Too gaily for that bandaged cheek, thought I); But they, whose business was to think, Were quite contented, let the hussy pass, Returned her kisses blown back down the road, And crowned the mirth of their outwitter's heart. As the steep road wound clear above the town, Fewer became those little comedies