I clapped applause, and straight produced my gifts: 
      A staff for Daphnis—­’twas the handiwork
      Of nature, in my father’s acres grown: 
      Yet might a turner find no fault therewith. 
      I gave his mate a goodly spiral-shell: 
      We stalked its inmate on the Icarian rocks
      And ate him, parted fivefold among five. 
    He blew forthwith the trumpet on his shell. 
      Tell, woodland Muse—­and then farewell—­what song
      I, the chance-comer, sang before those twain.

    SHEPHERD. 
      Ne’er let a falsehood scarify my tongue! 
        Crickets with crickets, ants with ants agree,
      And hawks with hawks:  and music sweetly sung,
        Beyond all else, is grateful unto me. 
        Filled aye with music may my dwelling be! 
      Not slumber, not the bursting forth of Spring
        So charms me, nor the flowers that tempt the bee,
      As those sweet Sisters.  He, on whom they fling
    One gracious glance, is proof to Circe’s blandishing.

IDYLL X.

The Two Workmen.

MILO.  BATTUS.

    What now, poor o’erworked drudge, is on thy mind? 
       No more in even swathe thou layest the corn: 
    Thy fellow-reapers leave thee far behind,
       As flocks a ewe that’s footsore from a thorn. 
    By noon and midday what will be thy plight
    If now, so soon, thy sickle fails to bite?

    BATTUS. 
    Hewn from hard rocks, untired at set of sun,
    Milo, didst ne’er regret some absent one?

    MILO. 
    Not I. What time have workers for regret?

    BATTUS. 
    Hath love ne’er kept thee from thy slumbers yet?

    MILO. 
    Nay, heaven forbid!  If once the cat taste cream!

    BATTUS. 
    Milo, these ten days love hath been my dream.

MILO. 
You drain your wine, while vinegar’s scarce with me.

BATTUS. 
—­Hence since last spring untrimmed my borders be.

MILO. 
And what lass flouts thee?

BATTUS. 
She whom we heard play
Amongst Hippocooen’s reapers yesterday.

MILO. 
Your sins have found you out—­you’re e’en served right: 
You’ll clasp a corn-crake in your arms all night.

BATTUS. 
You laugh:  but headstrong Love is blind no less
Than Plutus:  talking big is foolishness.

MILO. 
I talk not big.  But lay the corn-ears low
And trill the while some love-song—­easier so
Will seem your toil:  you used to sing, I know.

BATTUS. 
Maids of Pieria, of my slim lass sing! 
One touch of yours ennobles everything.

            [Sings]
    Fairy Bombyca! thee do men report
      Lean, dusk, a gipsy:  I alone nut-brown. 
    Violets and pencilled hyacinths are swart,
      Yet first of flowers they’re chosen for a crown. 
    As goats pursue the clover, wolves the goat,
    And cranes the ploughman, upon thee I dote.