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}
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?
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!
