LACON. 
    ’Twas Lycon’s gift, your highness.  But pray, Cometas, say,
    What is that skin wherewith thou saidst that Lacon walked away? 
    Why, thy lord’s self had ne’er a skin whereon his limbs to lay.

    COMETAS. 
    The skin that Crocylus gave me, a dark one streaked with white,
    The day he slew his she-goat.  Why, thou wert ill with spite,
    Then, my false friend; and thou would’st end by beggaring me quite.

    LACON. 
    Did Lacon, did Calaethis’ son purloin a goatskin?  No,
    By Pan that haunts the sea-beach!  Lad, if I served thee so,
    Crazed may I drop from yon hill-top to Crathis’ stream below!

    COMETAS. 
    Nor pipe of thine, good fellow—­the Ladies of the Lake
    So be still kind and good to me—­did e’er Cometas take.

    LACON. 
    Be Daphnis’ woes my portion, should that my credence win! 
    Still, if thou list to stake a kid—­that surely were no sin—­
    Come on, I’ll sing it out with thee—­until thou givest in.

    COMETAS.
    ‘The hog he braved Athene.’ As for the kid, ’tis there: 
    You stake a lamb against him—­that fat one—­if you dare.

    LACON. 
    Fox! were that fair for either?  At shearing who’d prefer
    Horsehair to wool? or when the goat stood handy, suffer her
    To nurse her firstling, and himself go milk a blatant cur?

    COMETAS. 
    The same who deemed his hornet’s-buzz the true cicala’s note,
    And braved—­like you—­his better.  And so forsooth you vote
    My kid a trifle?  Then come on, fellow!  I stake the goat.

    LACON. 
    Why be so hot?  Art thou on fire?  First prythee take thy seat
    ’Neath this wild woodland olive:  thy tones will sound more sweet. 
    Here falls a cold rill drop by drop, and green grass-blades uprear
    Their heads, and fallen leaves are thick, and locusts prattle here.

    COMETAS. 
    Hot I am not; but hurt I am, and sorely, when I think
    That thou canst look me in the face and never bleach nor blink—­
    Me, thine own boyhood’s tutor!  Go, train the she-wolf’s brood: 
    Train dogs—­that they may rend thee!  This, this is gratitude!

    LACON. 
    When learned I from thy practice or thy preaching aught that’s right,
    Thou puppet, thou misshapen lump of ugliness and spite?

    COMETAS. 
    When?  When I beat thee, wailing sore:  yon goats looked on with glee,
    And bleated; and were dealt with e’en as I had dealt with thee.

    LACON. 
    Well, hunchback, shallow be thy grave as was thy judgment then! 
    But hither, hither!  Thou’lt not dip in herdsman’s lore again.

    COMETAS. 
    Nay, here are oaks and galingale:  the hum of housing bees
    Makes the place pleasant, and the birds are piping in the trees. 
    And here are two cold streamlets; here deeper shadows fall
    Than yon place owns, and look what cones drop from the pinetree tall.