_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.