University of Virginia Library

IDYLLIUM the FOURTH. The SWAINS.

BATTUS, a Shepherd, and CORYDON, a Neatherd.
BATTUS.
Pray Corydon, are these Philonda's Cows?

CORYDON.
No—Ægon's: 'Tis my Charge, to see them browse.

BATTUS.
By Stealth, thou milk'st them, I suppose, at Eve?

CORYDON.
No—no—'Tis hard my Master to deceive!
Oft as the Calves are suckled, he stands by,
And marks my Motions, with so shrewd an Eye,
'Twere vain, to practise on the Carle a Fraud—

BATTUS.
But where's thy Master? Is he gone abroad?

CORYDON.
Not heard?—He's gone with Milo, to the Game,
To gain, on Alpheus' Banks, the Wrestler's Fame.

BATTUS.
When could his Eyes have seen the Wrestler's Oil?

CORYDON.
They say, he'd match Alcides in the Toil—

BATTUS.
Indeed! Believe my Mother, if thou can,
And I than Pollux am a better Man.

CORYDON.
He's gone then—driving with him full a Score
Of Sheep; while, in his Hand, a Spade he bore.

BATTUS.
What cannot Milo? Sure he can persuade
Ev'n Wolves to Madness!—

CORYDON.
Here, along the Shade,
His Heifers crop no more the tender Blade!

BATTUS.
Poor Beasts! how bad a Master!

CORYDON.
Poor indeed!
They low in Sorrow, and no longer feed!

BATTUS.
Yes—in yon' Cow a Skeleton we view!
What! like Cicadas, does she live on Dew?

CORYDON.
No—at Æsarus' Streams she loves to stray;
And feeds on Bundles of our fragrant Hay.
Oft too, she frisks around Latymnus' Hill,
And, in the shady Forest, eats her Fill.

BATTUS.
And that red Bull—of Bones a very Bag!
May the Lampriadæ no better brag
For Juno's Shrine—curs'd Race!

CORYDON.
Yet Physcus' Woods,
The Marsh, the Groves that hide Neæthus' Floods
He wanders o'er—where blossom'd Buckwheat grows;
And sweet, the Honeybell—the Cowslip glows.

BATTUS.
Yes! and to Hell too, will thy Cattle go—
And rove, poor Ægon, in the Shades below!
While, vainly, thy absurd Ambition tries
To bear away the Bubble of a Prize!
Thy Pipe may moulder into Dust away,
Fram'd by thy Hands, in Troth, for quick Decay.

CORYDON.
No, Battus, by the Nymphs, the Pipe's my Boon!
He gave it me; and I know many a Tune!
I chaunt sweet Glauca's Songs and Pyrrhus' Lays;
Salubrious Croton and Zacynthus praise!
And, as I view Lacinium's Eastern Site,
There, well remember what unrival'd Might
Our Ægon, (who devour'd alone, that Day,
Full fourscore Cakes) rush'd onward to display;
When boldly seizing by his Iron Hoof
(While eager Expectation hung aloof)
He dragg'd the Bull infuriate, down the Hill,
That vainly struggled against Strength and Skill,
And gave it Amaryllis! 'Midst the Crowd
The Women shouted, and he laugh'd aloud.

BATTUS.
My sweetest Amaryllis! lovely Maid!
Tho' thou art gone, thy Memory ne'er shall fade!
Ah Fate! what Evils mortal Man betide!
Dear as the Goats I tend, the Virgin died.

CORYDON.
Cheer up, my Swain! Another Day may rise,
Tho' now perhaps it lours, with kindlier Skies!
Hope shines in Life: In Death there's not a Spark:
At Times, the Heavens are bright—at Times, are dark.

BATTUS.
I'm not cast down—But see, thy Heifers prey
On my fat Olives: Whiteface, hist—away.

CORYDON.
Hoh Colly, to the Bank: Not stir an Inch—
If I approach thee, faith, I'll make thee flinch!
See now—she comes again! the Villain—look—
By Pan, I wish I had my Leveret-Crook!

BATTUS.
A Thorn pricks sore my Leg! See here the Wound—
How thick these matted Briars o'erspread the Ground!
Haste Corydon! Dost see't? Plague take the Beast!

CORYDON.
See here!

BATTUS.
Tho' small, its Pain was not the least.

CORYDON.
Then climb no more the Mountain's pathless Steep—
Or, thro' its furzy Thickets rashly creep,
With Feet unsandal'd: On the Mountain grow
Brambles and spindling Thorns, to work thee Woe.

BATTUS.
But Corydon, pray tell me, whether, still,
Thy grey old Master revels at his Will?
Hath yet the Carle a thirsty Soul to quench?
Does he yet follow the dark-eye-brow'd Wench?

CORYDON.
Yes—Yes—he still pursues his Girl—the Goat—
Last Night, I caught him in the hurdled Cote.

BATTUS.
Well done! no Satyr, with his Spindle-Shanks,
Not Pan with thee, salacious Fellow, ranks!