_Corydon_. Not the pipe, by the nymphs, not so, for when he went to Pisa, he left the same as a gift to me, and I am something of a player. Well can I strike up the air of _Glaucé_ and well the strain of _Pyrrhus_, and _the praise of Croton I sing_, and _Zacynthus is a goodly town_, and _Lacinium that fronts the dawn_! There Aegon the boxer, unaided, devoured eighty cakes to his own share, and there he caught the bull by the hoof, and brought him from the mountain, and gave him to Amaryllis. Thereon the women shrieked aloud, and the neatherd,—he burst out laughing. _Battus_. Ah, gracious Amaryllis! Thee alone even in death will we ne’er forget. Dear to me as my goats wert thou, and thou art dead! Alas, too cruel a spirit hath my lot in his keeping. _Corydon_. Dear Battus, thou must needs be comforted. The morrow perchance will bring better fortune. The living may hope, the dead alone are hopeless. Zeus now shows bright and clear, and anon he rains. _Battus_. Enough of thy comforting! Drive the calves from the lower ground, the cursed beasts are grazing on the olive-shoots. Hie on, white face. _Corydon_. Out, Cymaetha, get thee to the hill! Dost thou not hear? By Pan, I will soon come and be the death of you, if you stay there! Look, here she is creeping back again! Would I had my crook for hare killing: how I would cudgel thee. _Battus_. In the name of Zeus, prithee look here, Corydon! A thorn has just run into my foot under the ankle. How deep they grow, the arrow-headed thorns. An ill end befall the heifer; I was pricked when I was gaping after her. Prithee dost see it? _Corydon_. Yes, yes, and I have caught it in my nails, see, here it is. _Battus_. How tiny is the wound, and how tall a man it masters! _Corydon_. When thou goest to the hill, go not barefoot, Battus, for on the hillside flourish thorns and brambles plenty. _Battus_. Come, tell me, Corydon, the old man now, does he still run after that little black-browed darling whom he used to dote on? _Corydon_. He is after her still, my lad; but yesterday I came upon them, by the very byre, and right loving were they. _Battus_. Well done, thou ancient lover! Sure, thou art near akin to the satyrs, or a rival of the slim-shanked Pans! {26} IDYL V _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?