Lacinium:’—­the bruiser Milo there
    His single self ate eighty loaves; there also did he pull
    Down from its mountain-dwelling, by one hoof grasped, a bull,
    And gave it Amaryllis:  the maidens screamed with fright;
    As for the owner of the bull he only laughed outright.

    BATTUS. 
    Sweet Amaryllis! thou alone, though dead, art unforgot. 
    Dearer than thou, whose light is quenched, my very goats are not. 
    Oh for the all-unkindly fate that’s fallen to my lot!

    CORYDON. 
    Cheer up, brave lad! tomorrow may ease thee of thy pain: 
    Aye for the living are there hopes, past’ hoping are the slain: 
    And now Zeus sends us sunshine, and now he sends us rain.

    BATTUS. 
    I’m better.  Beat those young ones off!  E’en now their teeth attack
    That olive’s shoots, the graceless brutes!  Back, with your white face,
        back!

    CORYDON. 
    Back to thy hill, Cymaetha!  Great Pan, how deaf thou art! 
    I shall be with thee presently, and in the end thou’lt smart. 
    I warn thee, keep thy distance.  Look, up she creeps again! 
    Oh were my hare-crook in nay hand, I’d give it to her then!

    BATTUS. 
    For heaven’s sake, Corydon, look here!  Just now a bramble-spike
    Ran, there, into my instep—­and oh how deep they strike,
    Those lancewood-shafts!  A murrain light on that calf, I say! 
    I got it gaping after her.  Canst thou discern it, pray?

    CORYDON. 
    Ay, ay; and here I have it, safe in my finger-nails.

    BATTUS. 
    Eh! at how slight a matter how tall a warrior quails!

    CORYDON. 
    Ne’er range the hill-crest, Battus, all sandal-less and bare: 
    Because the thistle and the thorn lift aye their plumed heads there.

    BATTUS. 
    —­Say, Corydon, does that old man we wot of (tell me please!)
    Still haunt the dark-browed little girl whom once he used to tease?

    CORYDON. 
    Ay my poor boy, that doth he:  I saw them yesterday
    Down by the byre; and, trust me, loving enough were they.

    BATTUS. 
    Well done, my veteran light-o’-love!  In deeming thee mere man,
    I wronged thy sire:  some Satyr he, or an uncouth-limbed Pan.

IDYLL V.

The Battle of the Bards.

COMETAS.  LACON.  MORSON.

    COMETAS. 
    Goats, from a shepherd who stands here, from Lacon, keep away: 
    Sibyrtas owns him; and he stole my goatskin yesterday.

    LACON. 
    Hi! lambs! avoid yon fountain.  Have ye not eyes to see
    Cometas, him who filched a pipe but two days back from me?

    COMETAS. 
    Sibyrtas’ bondsman own a pipe? whence gotst thou that, and how? 
    Tootling through straws with Corydon mayhap’s beneath thee now?