Greek Texts & Translations

LACON
5.74 Zeus! and who asked thee, foul knave, ^note whether the flock was mine or Sibyrtas’? Lord, what a babbler is here!

COMATAS
5.76 Most excellent blockhead, all I say, I, is true, though for my part, I’m no braggart; but Lord! what a railer is here!

LACON
5.78 Come, come; say thy say and be done, and let’s suffer friend Morson to come off with his life. Apollo save us, Comatas! thou hast the gift o’ the gab.

(The Singing Match)

COMATAS
5.80 The Muses bear me greater love than Daphnis ^note ere did see;
And well they may, for t’other day they had two goats for me.

LACON
5.82 But Apollo loves me all as well, and an offering too have I,
A fine fat ram a-batt’ning; for Apollo’s feast draws nigh.

COMATAS
5.84 Night all my goats have twins at teat; there’s only two with one;
And the damsel sees and the damsel says ‘Poor lad, dost milk alone?’

LACON
5.86 O tale of woe! here's Lacon, though, fills cheese-racks well-nigh twenty
And fouls his dear not a youth but a boy mid flowers that blow so plenty.

COMATAS
5.88 But when her goatherd boy goes by you should see my Cleärist
Fling apples, and her pretty lips call pouting to be kissed.

LACON
5.90 But madness ‘tis for the shepherd to meet the shepherd’s love,
So brown and bright the tresses light that toss that shoulder above.

COMATAS
5.92 Ah! but there’s no comparing windflower with rose at all,
Nor wild dog-róse with her that blows beside the trim orchard’s wall.

LACON
5.94 There’s no better likeness, neither, ‘twixt fruit of pear ^note and holm;
The acorn savours flat and stale, the pear’s like honeycomb.

COMATAS
5.96 In yonder juniper-thicket a cushat sits on her nest;
I’ll go this day and fetch her away for the maiden I love best.

LACON
5.98 So soon as e’er my sheep I shear, a rare fine gift I’ll take;
I’ll give yon black ewe’s pretty coat my darling’s cloak to make.

COMATAS
5.100 Hey, bleaters! away from the olive; where would be grazing then?
Your pasture’s where the tamarisk grows and the slope hill drops to the glen.

LACON
5.102 Where are ye browsing, Crumple? and, Browning, where are ye?
Graze up the hill as Piebad will, and let the oak-leaves be.

COMATAS
5.104 I’ve laid up a piggin of cypress-wood and a bowl for mixing wine,
The work of great Praxiteles, ^note both for that lass of mine.

LACON
5.106 And I, I have a flock-dog, a wolver of good fame,
Shall go a gift to my dearest and hunt him all manner of game.

COMATAS
5.108 Avaunt, avaunt, ye locusts o’er master’s fence that spring;
These be none of your common vines; have done your ravaging.

LACON
5.110 See, crickets, see how vexed he be! see master Goatherd boiling!
‘Tis even so you vex, I trow, the reapers at their toiling. ^note

COMATAS
5.112 I hate the brush-tail foxes, that soon as day declines
Come creeping to their vintaging mid goodman Micon’s vines.

LACON
5.114 So too I hate the beetles come riding on the breeze,
Guttle Philondas’ choicest figs, and off as quick as you please.

COMATAS
5.116 Don’t you remember when I poked you, and you
Grinning jerked your tail finely at me, and clung to that oak-tree?

LACON
5.118 That indeed I don’t remember; however, when Eumaras
fastened you up here and cleaned you out – that anyway I know all about.

COMATAS
5.120 Somebody’s waxing wild, Morson; see you not what is plain?
Go pluck him squills from an oldwife’s grave to cool his heated brain.

LACON
5.122 Nay, I be nettling somebody; do you not see it, then?
Be off to Haleis bank, Morson, and dig him some cyclamen.

COMATAS
5.124 Let Himera’s stream run white with cream, and Crathis, as for thine,
Mid apple-bearing beds or reed may it run red with wine.

LACON
5.126 Let Sybaris’ well spring honey for me, and ere the sun is up
May the wench that goes for water draw honeycombs for my cup.

COMATAS
5.128 My goats eat goat-grass, mine, and browze upon the clover,
Tread mastich green and lie between the arbutes waving over.

LACON
5.130 It may be so, but I’ld have ye know these pretty sheep of mine
Browze rock-roses in plenty and sweet as eglantine.

COMATAS
5.132 When I brought the cushat ‘tother night ‘tis true Alcippa kissed me,
But alack! she forgot to kiss by the pot, ^note and since, poor wench, she’s missed me.

LACON