Lacon. Nay, nor wild apples to acorns, for acorns are bitter in the
oaken rind, but apples are sweet as honey.

Comatas. Soon will I give my maiden a ring-dove for a gift; I will
take it from the juniper tree, for there it is brooding.

Lacon. But I will give my darling a soft fleece to make a cloak, a
free gift, when I shear the black ewe.

Comatas. Forth from the wild olive, my bleating she-goats, feed here
where the hillside slopes, and the tamarisks grove.

Lacon. Conarus there, and Cynaetha, will you never leave the oak?
Graze here, where Phalarus feeds, where the hillside fronts the dawn.

Comatas. Ay, and I have a vessel of cypress wood, and a mixing bowl,
the work of Praxiteles, and I hoard them for my maiden.

Lacon. I too have a dog that loves the flock, the dog to strangle
wolves; him I am giving to my darling to chase all manner of wild
beasts.

Comatas. Ye locusts that overleap our fence, see that ye harm not
our vines, for our vines are young.

Lacon. Ye cicalas, see how I make the goatherd chafe: even so,
methinks, do ye vex the reapers.

Comatas. I hate the foxes, with their bushy brushes, that ever come
at evening, and eat the grapes of Micon.