University of Virginia Library

IDYLLIUM the FIFTH. The TRAVELLERS.

COMATES, a Goatherd, and LACON, a Shepherd.—Woodman MORSON, the Umpire.
COMATES.
Fly—fly, my Goats, that wicked Sybarite—
The Rogue—He stole my Goatskin, but last Night!

LACON.
Lambs, from the Brook—my tender Lambkins, fly—
For he, who stole my Flute, stands skulking by!

COMATES.
Thy Flute? What Song can servile Lacon play?
Indeed, with Brother Corydon, thy Lay
Drew many a laughing Lout, who heard and saw
Thy squeaking scrannel Reed, of wretched Straw!

LACON.
No—Lycon gave me a melodious Flute!
But could I steal a Goatskin from a Brute?
Thy Master's Limbs on no soft Skin recline:
Sure, such a Luxury was never thine.

COMATES.
Yes! 'Twas the speckled one, of special Note,
My Neighbour gave me, when he kill'd the Goat!
Thou know'st the Time: For then thy envious Eyes
Glanc'd Theft; and now, thy Hands have stol'n the Prize!

LACON.
By Pan 'tis false—by Pan, who guards our Shore—
Or, may I never be call'd Lacon more!
Or, into Crathis' Streams that roll so deep,
In Madness, may I plunge, from yonder Steep!

COMATES.
And, by the Nymphs, the Fountain-Nymphs, I swear,
In yonder Fane propitious to my Prayer;
Comates never stole a Flute of thine—

LACON.
If I believe, may Daphnis' Woes be mine!
‘Nought's sacred!’ Yet, since thus thy Tongue defies,
Stake down a Kid; I warrant, I've the Prize!

COMATES.
‘Minerva's Sow!’ Of wrangling to get rid,
If thou wilt stake a Lamb, I lay a Kid.

LACON.
Hah! shrewd Comates! thy Proposal's deep!
But who e'er sheer'd a Goatling for a Sheep?
In vain might such a Flam a Booby bilk—
Who ever left a Goat, a Bitch to milk?

COMATES.
He, who the Prize, like thee, would vainly grasp—
To the Cicada shrill, a humming Wasp.
But if a Kidling be no equal Stake,
That full-grown Goat, that browses yonder, take!

LACON.
Yet why such Haste? Beneath the friendly Shade
Of this wild Olive-Tree that skirts the Glade,
While there the cooling Stream glides soft along,
May breathe, in sweeter Tones, thy boasted Song.
Here grassy Beds—here tender Herbage springs—
Here, perch'd on high, the noonday Locust sings.

COMATES.
I'm not in Haste—but feel it a Disgrace,
That such a Lout confronts me, Face to Face!
That he, whom yet a Boy, I taught, should dare
With Rivalry repay his Master's Care.
Thus train'd and fed, the Favor to requite,
A Wolf will eat thee, and a Dog will bite!

LACON.
But tell me, Caitiff, when wert thou so kind?
For not one Ditty I recall to Mind.
Yet, Boaster, since thy Tongue can run so fast,
Come, to the Grove along, and sing thy last.

COMATES.
No—Swain: Here flourish Oaks—here Rushes thrive—
Here sweetly buzz the Bees round many a Hive.
Here two fresh Fountains cool the Heats of Day,
And prattling Birds enliven every Spray!
Here, whilst thy Bowers a slighter Umbrage own,
The clustering Pine-Tree scatters many a Cone.

LACON.
Here, on the Fleeces of the Lambkin, spread
Softer than Sleep, thy easy Steps shall tread!
But for thy Goatskins laid on yonder Bank,
Not ev'n their Goatherd Master smells so rank.
Here, to the Nymphs, be mine the pleasing Toil
To crown one Bowl of Milk, and one of Oil.

COMATES.
No—come with me—for here, the Fern shall meet
With the Horn'd-Poppy's tender Flower, thy Feet!
While my Kid-Carpet's softer far than thine,
Of Milk I'll crown eight Goblets, for the Shrine
Of Pan; and heap'd delicious to the Brim,
In eight Straw Hives shall Combs of Honey swim.

LACON.
Then to thy Oaken-Umbrage let's away—
But who shall judge the Merits of our Lay?
I wish Lycopas with his Herds, were near;
He, sure, would listen with impartial Ear.

COMATES.
No Need: Thy Master's Woodman, if thou will,
Who cleaves the Billets on yon' Forest-Hill,
Will judge.

LACON.
Agreed—

COMATES.
Then call him—

LACON.
Hither Friend!
The Umpire of our rural Songs, attend.
But hear, good Morson; let no Favor guide,
And lean not partial on Comates' Side.

COMATES.
Yes—by the Nymphs, be sure determine true—
Nor give that Lacon more than Lacon's Due.
Of Sybaris, I tend Eumaras' Goats—
He drives Sybartas' Sheep, from Thurian Cotes.

LACON.
By Jove, the Fellow hath a flippant Tongue;
Who ask'st thee, pray, to whom these Flocks belong?

COMATES.
Hearkee—I do not vainly boast, forsooth;
Nor rail, but tell each Tittle of the Truth.

LACON.
Come sing then (if thou canst) contentious Clown!
Let but thy Umpire reach alive the Town.

COMATES.
The Nine, to whom two Kids, in Sacrifice,
I gave, my Ditties above Daphnis' prize!

LACON.
Lov'd by Apollo, who my Stores increast,
A goodly Ram I fatten for the Feast.

COMATES.
My Goats with Twins I milk: A tittering Maid
Pass'd by; and ‘Ah! dost milk, thyself?’ she said.

LACON.
Pheugh! Twenty Vats with Cheese can Lacon fill!
And taste, on Flowers, soft Pleasures, at his Will.

COMATES.
Oft Clearista pelts with Apples crisp
Her Swain; and, in a Whisper, loves to lisp.

LACON.
Oh how I tremble as I meet my Fair,
While o'er her Bosom streams her wanton Hair.

COMATES.
But who compares the Sweet-Briar's meaner Bush,
Or the light Pass-Flower, with the Rose's Blush?

LACON.
Who says, the Oak's rough Acorn ever grew
Bright as the glossy Chesnut's honey'd Hue?

COMATES.
I have a gentle Ringdove for my Fair,
In yonder Juniper: Her Nest is there!

LACON.
For a soft Raiment I'll present my Dear
A vi'let-colour'd Fleece when next I shear.

COMATES.
Off from the wildling Olive, Goats: Here browse,
Where spreads the Tamarisk, o'er the Slope, its Boughs.

LACON.
Ho—Conarus—Cymætha—from the Shade
Of that dim Oak; and crop this Eastern Glade.

COMATES.
For her, whose Love inspires my tuneful Tale,
I have a rich-wrought Bowl, and Cypress-Pail.

LACON.
For my sweet Shepherdess a Dog I keep—
To guard from prowling Wolves her frisky Sheep.

COMATES.
Ye crouding Locusts! from my Vineyard hence—
Touch not these nursling Shoots—nor pass the Fence.

LACON.
Cicadas! see the Goatherd's ill at Ease!
The Reapers thus, with shrill-ton'd Voice, ye teaze!

COMATES.
I hate the brush-tail Foxes, that escape
From Micon's Vineyard, stealing many a Grape.

LACON.
And I the wheeling Beetles, that scarce leave
Philonda's luscious Figs, to drone at Eve.

COMATES.
Dost recollect, when gnashing at each Stroke,
I lash'd, and made thee cling to yonder Oak?

LACON.
No—but remember, when I saw thee bound
To that same Tree, and anguish'd stamp the Ground.

COMATES.
See—see—the wincing Ape what Choler fills—
Go, Fool—and from the grey Tomb pluck the Squills.

LACON.
Hah! but a smarter Sting can some one feel—
To Hales, Fool; and dig my Lady's Seal.

COMATES.
Be Himera Milk; and rosy Crathis blush
All Wine—with Fruit on every bending Rush!

LACON.
Be Sybaris Honey; and our Girl, with Urn
Dipt into luscious Sweets, at Dawn, return!

COMATES.
My Goats eat Cytisus; o'er Lentisk tread,
And Strawberries compose their shrubby Bed!

LACON
My Sheep stray sportive, where the Thyme Flower blows—
And Ivy flaunts, the Rival of the Rose!

COMATES.
Lovely no more Alcippe's Form appears—
She kist not for my Dove, or prest my Ears.

LACON.
But I my Sweet-heart love! The Wink she tips—
Sighs for a Kiss—and sweetly pouts her Lips.

COMATES.
But stop thy wretched Pipe, vexatious Swain,
Nor idly rival a superior Strain:
Thus with the stately Swan might Lapwings vie—
Or with the Nightingale the screaming Pie.

MORSON.
Cease, Shepherd, cease: Comates wins the Prize—
Nor thou forget me at thy Sacrifice!—

COMATES.
No—by the Sylvan Pan!—Hark! hark! my Boy!
How my whole Flock of Goats snorts wild for Joy!
With Leaps of Transport how they frisk around!
I too could reach the Immortals, at a Bound!
Ah! foolish Shepherd! all thy Boast's a Flam!
Go hang thee, Lacon! I have won the Lamb!
But ye, my Goats! my Kids in Triumph run!
Come, my horn'd Flock! To-morrow as the Sun
O'er Sybaris shall ascend, with slanting Beams,
I'll wash you in the Fount's translucent Streams.
Ho! ruttish Goat! thy wanton Gambols stay!
Ere to the Nymphs my votive Rites I pay!
Still gamesome? Thou shalt smart then, I'll be sworn,
Or, like Melanthius, may my Limbs be torn!