The Idylliums of Theocritus :: :: University of Virginia Library

Milo and Battus, two reapers, have a conference as they are at work; Battus not reaping so fast as usual, Milo asks him the reason of it; he frankly confesses it was owing to love; and, at the request of Milo, sings a song in praise of his mistress: Milo afterwards repeats the poetical maxims of Lytierses.

Milo and Battus.
MILO.
Battus, some evil sure afflicts you sore;
You cannot reap as you have reap'd before;
No longer you your sheaves with vigour bind,
But, like a wounded sheep, lag heavily behind.

If thus you fail with early morning's light,
How can you work till noon or slow-pac'd night?

BATTUS.
Milo, thou moiling drudge, as hard as stone,
An absent mistress did'st thou n'er bemoan?

MILO.
Not I—I never learnt fair maids to woo;
Pray what with love have labouring men to do?

BATTUS.
Did love then never interrupt thy sleep?

MILO.
No, Battus: dogs should never run at sheep.

BATTUS.
But I have lov'd these ten long days and more.

MILO.
Yes, you're a wealthy man, and I a poor.

BATTUS.
Hence all things round me in confusion lie.

MILO.
But tell me who's this charmer of your eye?

BATTUS.
Old Polybuta's niece, the gay, the young,
Who harvest-home at Hypocöon's sung.

MILO.
Then for your sins you will be finely sped;
Each night a grizzle grashopper in bed.

BATTUS.
Yet spare your insults, cruel and unkind!
Plutus, you know, as well as Love, is blind.

MILO.
No harm I mean—but, Battus, as you play
On the sweet pipe, and sing an amorous lay,
With music's charms our pleasing toils prolong;
Your mistress be the subject of your song.

BATTUS.
Ye Muses, sweetly let the numbers flow!
For you new beauty on all themes bestow.
Charming Bombyce, though some call you thin,
And blame the tawny colour of your skin;
Yet I the lustre of your beauty own,
And deem you like Hyblæan honey brown.

The letter'd hyacinth's of darksome hue,
And the sweet violet a sable blue;
Yet these in crowns ambrosial odours shed,
And grace fair garlands that adorn the head.
Kids flowery thyme, gaunt wolves the kid pursue,
The crane the plough-share, and I follow you.
Were I as rich as Crœsus was of old,
Our statues soon should rise of purest gold,
In Cytherea's sacred shrine to stand,
You with an apple, rose, and lute in hand;
I like a dancer would attract the sight,
In gaudy sandals gay, and habit light.

Charming Bombyce, you my numbers greet;
How lovely, fair, and beautiful your feet!
Soft is your voice—but I no words can find
To represent the moral of your mind.

MILO.

How sweetly, swain, your carrols you rehearse?
How aptly scan the measure of your verse?
A wit so barren with a beard so long!—
Attend to tuneful Lytierses' song.

O fruitful Ceres, bless with corn the field;
May the full ears a plenteous harvest yield!

100

Bind, reapers, bind your sheaves, lest strangers say,
“Ah, lazy drones! their hire is thrown away.”

To the fresh north-wind, or the zephyrs rear
Your shocks; those breezes fill the swelling ear.

101

Ye threshers, never sleep at noon of day;
For then the light chaff quickly blows away.

Reapers should rise with larks, to earn their hire,
Rest in the heat, and when they roost, retire.

How happy is the fortune of a frog!
He wants no moisture in his watery bog.

102

Steward, boil all the pulse; such pinching's mean;
You'll wound your hand by splitting of a bean.

These songs the reapers of the field improve;
But your sad lay, your starveling tale of love,
Which soon will bring you to a crust of bread,
Keep for your mother, as she yawns in bed.