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! {26}



IDYL V