_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.