LACON. 
    Come hither, and tread on lambswool that is soft as any dream: 
    Still more unsavoury than thyself to me thy goatskins seem. 
    Here will I plant a bowl of milk, our ladies’ grace to win;
    And one, as huge, beside it, sweet olive-oil therein.

    COMETAS. 
    Come hither, and trample dainty fern and poppy-blossom:  sleep
    On goatskins that are softer than thy fleeces piled three deep. 
    Here will I plant eight milkpails, great Pan’s regard to gain,
    Bound them eight cups:  full honeycombs shall every cup contain.

    LACON. 
    Well! there essay thy woodcraft:  thence fight me, never budge
    From thine own oak; e’en have thy way.  But who shall be our judge? 
    Oh, if Lycopas with his kine should chance this way to trudge!

    COMETAS. 
    Nay, I want no Lycopas.  But hail yon woodsman, do: 
    ’Tis Morson—­see! his arms are full of bracken—­there, by you.

LACON. 
We’ll hail him.

COMETAS. 
Ay, you hail him.

LACON. 
Friend, ’twill not take thee long: 
We’re striving which is master, we twain, in woodland song: 
And thou, my good friend Morson, ne’er look with favouring eyes
On me; nor yet to yonder lad be fain to judge the prize.

COMETAS. 
Nay, by the Nymphs, sweet Morson, ne’er for Cometas’ sake
Stretch thou a point; nor e’er let him undue advantage take. 
Sibyrtas owns yon wethers; a Thurian is he: 
And here, my friend, Eumares’ goats, of Sybaris, you may see.

    LACON. 
    And who asked thee, thou naughty knave, to whom belonged these flocks,
    Sibyrtas, or (it might be) me?  Eh, thou’rt a chatter-box!

    COMETAS. 
    The simple truth, most worshipful, is all that I allege: 
    I’m not for boasting.  But thy wit hath all too keen an edge.

    LACON. 
    Come sing, if singing’s in thee—­and may our friend get back
    To town alive!  Heaven help us, lad, how thy tongue doth clack!

    COMETAS. [Sings]
    Daphnis the mighty minstrel was less precious to the Nine
    Than I. I offered yesterday two kids upon their shrine.

    LACON. [Sings]
    Ay, but Apollo fancies me hugely:  for him I rear
    A lordly ram:  and, look you, the Carnival is near.

    COMETAS. 
    Twin kids hath every goat I milk, save two.  My maid, my own,
    Eyes me and asks ‘At milking time, rogue, art thou all alone?’

    LACON. 
    Go to! nigh twenty baskets doth Lacon fill with cheese: 
    Hath time to woo a sweetheart too upon the blossomed leas.

    COMETAS. 
    Clarissa pelts her goatherd with apples, should he stray
    By with his goats; and pouts her lip in a quaint charming way.

    LACON. 
    Me too a darling smooth of face notes as I tend my flocks: 
    How maddeningly o’er that fair neck ripple those shining locks!