Battus. Tell me, Corydon, whose kine are these,—the cattle of Philondas?
Corydon. Nay, they are Aegon’s, he gave me them to pasture.
Battus. Dost thou ever find a way to milk them all, on the sly, just before evening?
Corydon. No chance of that, for the old man puts the calves beneath their dams, and keeps watch on me.
Battus. But the neatherd himself,—to what land has he passed out of sight?
Corydon. Hast thou not heard? Milon went and carried him off to the Alpheus.
Battus. And when, pray, did he ever set eyes on the wrestlers’ oil?
Corydon. They say he is a match for Heracles, in strength and hardihood.
Battus. And I, so mother says, am a better man than Polydeuces.
Corydon. Well, off he has gone, with a shovel, and with twenty sheep from his flock here.
Battus. Milo, thou’lt see, will soon be coaxing the wolves to rave!
Corydon. But Aegon’s heifers here are lowing pitifully, and miss their master.
Battus. Yes, wretched beasts that they are, how false a neatherd was theirs!
Corydon. Wretched enough in truth, and they have no more care to pasture.
Battus. Nothing is left, now, of that heifer, look you, bones, that’s all. She does not live on dewdrops, does she, like the grasshopper?
Corydon. No, by Earth, for sometimes I take her to graze by the banks of Aesarus, fair handfuls of fresh grass I give her too, and otherwhiles she wantons in the deep shade round Latymnus.
Battus. How lean is the red bull too! May the sons of Lampriades, the burghers to wit, get such another for their sacrifice to Hera, for the township is an ill neighbour.
Corydon. And yet that bull is driven to the mere’s mouth, and to the meadows of Physcus, and to the Neaethus, where all fair herbs bloom, red goat-wort, and endive, and fragrant bees-wort.
Battus. Ah, wretched Aegon, thy very kine will go to Hades, while thou too art in love with a luckless victory, and thy pipe is flecked with mildew, the pipe that once thou madest for thyself!
Corydon. Not the pipe, by the nymphs, not so, for when he went to Pisa, he left the same as a gift to me, and I am something of a player. Well can I strike up the air of Glaucé and well the strain of Pyrrhus, and the praise of Croton I sing, and Zacynthus is a goodly town, and Lacinium that fronts the dawn! There Aegon the boxer, unaided, devoured eighty cakes to his own share, and there he caught the bull by the hoof, and brought him from the mountain, and gave him to Amaryllis. Thereon the women shrieked aloud, and the neatherd,—he burst out laughing.
Battus. Ah, gracious Amaryllis! Thee alone even in death will we ne’er forget. Dear to me as my goats wert thou, and thou art dead! Alas, too cruel a spirit hath my lot in his keeping.
Corydon. Dear Battus, thou must needs be comforted. The morrow perchance will bring better fortune. The living may hope, the dead alone are hopeless. Zeus now shows bright and clear, and anon he rains.
Battus. Enough of thy comforting! Drive the calves from the lower ground, the cursed beasts are grazing on the olive-shoots. Hie on, white face.
Corydon. Out, Cymaetha, get thee to the hill! Dost thou not hear? By Pan, I will soon come and be the death of you, if you stay there! Look, here she is creeping back again! Would I had my crook for hare killing: how I would cudgel thee.
Battus. In the name of Zeus, prithee look here, Corydon! A thorn has just run into my foot under the ankle. How deep they grow, the arrow-headed thorns. An ill end befall the heifer; I was pricked when I was gaping after her. Prithee dost see it?
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!
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