_This is an idyl of the same genre as Idyl IV_. _The sturdy reaper_, _Milon_, _as he levels the swathes of corn_, _derides his languid and love-worn companion_, _Buttus_. _The latter defends his gipsy love in verses which have been the keynote of much later poetry_, _and which echo in the fourth book of Lucretius_, _and in the Misanthrope of Molière_. _Milon replies with the song of Lityerses_—_a string_, _apparently_, _of popular rural couplets_, _such as Theocritus may have heard chanted in the fields_. * * * * * _Milan_. Thou toilsome clod; what ails thee now, thou wretched fellow? Canst thou neither cut thy swathe straight, as thou wert wont to do, nor keep time with thy neighbour in thy reaping, but thou must fall out, like an ewe that is foot-pricked with a thorn and straggles from the herd? What manner of man wilt thou prove after mid-noon, and at evening, thou that dost not prosper with thy swathe when thou art fresh begun? _Battus_. Milon, thou that canst toil till late, thou chip of the stubborn stone, has it never befallen thee to long for one that was not with thee? _Milan_. Never! What has a labouring man to do with hankering after what he has not got? _Battus_. Then it never befell thee to lie awake for love? _Milan_. Forbid it; ’tis an ill thing to let the dog once taste of pudding. _Battus_. But I, Milon, am in love for almost eleven days! _Milan_. ’Tis easily seen that thou drawest from a wine-cask, while even vinegar is scarce with me. _Battus_. And for Love’s sake, the fields before my doors are untilled since seed-time. _Milan_. But which of the girls afflicts thee so? _Battus_. The daughter of Polybotas, she that of late was wont to pipe to the reapers on Hippocoon’s farm. _Milan_. God has found out the guilty! Thou hast what thou’st long been seeking, that grasshopper of a girl will lie by thee the night long! _Battus_. Thou art beginning thy mocks of me, but Plutus is not the only blind god; he too is blind, the heedless Love! Beware of talking big. _Milan_. Talk big I do not! Only see that thou dust level the corn, and strike up some love-ditty in the wench’s praise. More pleasantly thus wilt thou labour, and, indeed, of old thou wert a melodist. _Battus_. Ye Muses Pierian, sing ye with me the slender maiden, for whatsoever ye do but touch, ye goddesses, ye make wholly fair. They all call thee a _gipsy_, gracious Bombyca, and _lean_, and _sunburnt_, ’tis only I that call thee _honey-pale_. Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered hyacinth, but yet these flowers are chosen the first in garlands. The goat runs after cytisus, the wolf pursues the goat, the crane follows the plough, but I am wild for love of thee.