Complete Works of Theocritus Read online

  Thou wilt not? Piecemeal I will rend the crown,

  The ivy-crown which, dear, I guard for thee,

  Inwov’n with scented parsley and with flowers:

  Oh I am desperate — what betides me, what? —

  Still art thou deaf? I’ll doff my coat of skins

  And leap into yon waves, where on the watch

  For mackerel Olpis sits: tho’ I ‘scape death,

  That I have all but died will pleasure thee.

  That learned I when (I murmuring ‘loves she me?’)

  The Love-in-absence, crushed, returned no sound,

  But shrank and shrivelled on my smooth young wrist.

  I learned it of the sieve-divining crone

  Who gleaned behind the reapers yesterday:

  ‘Thou’rt wrapt up all,’ Agraia said, ‘in her;

  She makes of none account her worshipper.’

  Lo! a white goat, and twins, I keep for thee:

  Mermnon’s lass covets them: dark she is of skin:

  But yet hers be they; thou but foolest me.

  She cometh, by the quivering of mine eye.

  I’ll lean against the pine-tree here and sing.

  She may look round: she is not adamant.

  [Sings] Hippomenes, when he a maid would wed,

  Took apples in his hand and on he sped.

  Famed Atalanta’s heart was won by this;

  She marked, and maddening sank in Love’s abyss.

  From Othrys did the seer Melampus stray

  To Pylos with his herd: and lo there lay

  In a swain’s arms a maid of beauty rare;

  Alphesiboea, wise of heart, she bare.

  Did not Adonis rouse to such excess

  Of frenzy her whose name is Loveliness,

  (He a mere lad whose wethers grazed the hill)

  That, dead, he’s pillowed on her bosom still?

  Endymion sleeps the sleep that changeth not:

  And, maiden mine, I envy him his lot!

  Envy Iasion’s: his it was to gain

  Bliss that I dare not breathe in ears profane.

  My head aches. What reck’st thou? I sing no more:

  E’en where I fell I’ll lie, until the wolves

  Rend me — may that be honey in thy mouth!

  IDYLL IV. The Herdsmen.

  BATTUS. CORYDON.

  BATTUS.

  Who owns these cattle, Corydon? Philondas? Prythee say.

  CORYDON.

  No, Ægon: and he gave them me to tend while he’s away.

  BATTUS.

  Dost milk them in the gloaming, when none is nigh to see?

  CORYDON.

  The old man brings the calves to suck, and keeps an eye on me.

  BATTUS.

  And to what region then hath flown the cattle’s rightful lord?

  CORYDON.

  Hast thou not heard? With Milo he vanished Elis-ward.

  BATTUS.

  How! was the wrestler’s oil e’er yet so much as seen by him?

  CORYDON.

  Men say he rivals Heracles in lustiness of limb.

  BATTUS.

  I’m Polydeuces’ match (or so my mother says) and more.

  CORYDON.

  — So off he started; with a spade, and of these ewes a score.

  BATTUS.

  This Milo will be teaching wolves how they should raven next.

  CORYDON.

  — And by these bellowings his kine proclaim how sore they’re vexed.

  BATTUS.

  Poor kine! they’ve found their master a sorry knave indeed.

  CORYDON.

  They’re poor enough, I grant you: they have not heart to feed.

  BATTUS.

  Look at that heifer! sure there’s naught, save bare bones, left of her.

  Pray, does she browse on dewdrops, as doth the grasshopper?

  CORYDON.

  Not she, by heaven! She pastures now by Æsarus’ glades,

  And handfuls fair I pluck her there of young and green grass-blades;

  Now bounds about Latymnus, that gathering-place of shades.

  BATTUS.

  That bull again, the red one, my word but he is lean!

  I wish the Sybarite burghers aye may offer to the queen

  Of heaven as pitiful a beast: those burghers are so mean!

  CORYDON.

  Yet to the Salt Lake’s edges I drive him, I can swear;

  Up Physcus, up Neæthus’ side — he lacks not victual there,

  With dittany and endive and foxglove for his fare.

  BATTUS.

  Well, well! I pity Ægon. His cattle, go they must

  To rack and ruin, all because vain-glory was his lust.

  The pipe that erst he fashioned is doubtless scored with rust?

  CORYDON.

  Nay, by the Nymphs! That pipe he left to me, the self-same day

  He made for Pisa: I am too a minstrel in my way:

  Well the flute-part in ‘Pyrrhus’ and in ‘Glauca’ can I play.

  I sing too ‘Here’s to Croton’ and ‘Zacynthus O ’tis fair,’

  And ‘Eastward to Lacinium:’ — the bruiser Milo there

  His single self ate eighty loaves; there also did he pull

  Down from its mountain-dwelling, by one hoof grasped, a bull,

  And gave it Amaryllis: the maidens screamed with fright;

  As for the owner of the bull he only laughed outright.

  BATTUS.

  Sweet Amaryllis! thou alone, though dead, art unforgot.

  Dearer than thou, whose light is quenched, my very goats are not.

  Oh for the all-unkindly fate that’s fallen to my lot!

  CORYDON.

  Cheer up, brave lad! tomorrow may ease thee of thy pain:

  Aye for the living are there hopes, past’ hoping are the slain:

  And now Zeus sends us sunshine, and now he sends us rain.

  BATTUS.

  I’m better. Beat those young ones off! E’en now their teeth attack

  That olive’s shoots, the graceless brutes! Back, with your white face, back!

  CORYDON.

  Back to thy hill, Cymætha! Great Pan, how deaf thou art!

  I shall be with thee presently, and in the end thou’lt smart.

  I warn thee, keep thy distance. Look, up she creeps again!

  Oh were my hare-crook in nay hand, I’d give it to her then!

  BATTUS.

  For heaven’s sake, Corydon, look here! Just now a bramble-spike

  Ran, there, into my instep — and oh how deep they strike,

  Those lancewood-shafts! A murrain light on that calf, I say!

  I got it gaping after her. Canst thou discern it, pray?

  CORYDON.

  Ay, ay; and here I have it, safe in my finger-nails.

  BATTUS.

  Eh! at how slight a matter how tall a warrior quails!

  CORYDON.

  Ne’er range the hill-crest, Battus, all sandal-less and bare:

  Because the thistle and the thorn lift aye their plumed heads there.

  BATTUS.

  — Say, Corydon, does that old man we wot of (tell me please!)

  Still haunt the dark-browed little girl whom once he used to tease?

  CORYDON.

  Ay my poor boy, that doth he: I saw them yesterday

  Down by the byre; and, trust me, loving enough were they.

  BATTUS.

  Well done, my veteran light-o’-love! In deeming thee mere man,

  I wronged thy sire: some Satyr he, or an uncouth-limbed Pan.

  IDYLL V. The Battle of the Bards.

  COMETAS. LACON. MORSON.

  COMETAS.

  Goats, from a shepherd who stands here, from Lacon, keep away:

  Sibyrtas owns him; and he stole my goatskin yesterday.

  LACON.

  Hi! lambs! avoid yon fountain. Have ye not eyes to see

  Cometas, him who filched a pipe but two days back from me?

 
; COMETAS.

  Sibyrtas’ bondsman own a pipe? whence gotst thou that, and how?

  Tootling through straws with Corydon mayhap’s beneath thee now?

  LACON.

  ’Twas Lycon’s gift, your highness. But pray, Cometas, say,

  What is that skin wherewith thou saidst that Lacon walked away?

  Why, thy lord’s self had ne’er a skin whereon his limbs to lay.

  COMETAS.

  The skin that Crocylus gave me, a dark one streaked with white,

  The day he slew his she-goat. Why, thou wert ill with spite,

  Then, my false friend; and thou would’st end by beggaring me quite.

  LACON.

  Did Lacon, did Calæthis’ son purloin a goatskin? No,

  By Pan that haunts the sea-beach! Lad, if I served thee so,

  Crazed may I drop from yon hill-top to Crathis’ stream below!

  COMETAS.

  Nor pipe of thine, good fellow — the Ladies of the Lake

  So be still kind and good to me — did e’er Cometas take.

  LACON.

  Be Daphnis’ woes my portion, should that my credence win!

  Still, if thou list to stake a kid — that surely were no sin —

  Come on, I’ll sing it out with thee — until thou givest in.

  COMETAS.

  ‘The hog he braved Athene.’ As for the kid, ’tis there:

  You stake a lamb against him — that fat one — if you dare.

  LACON.

  Fox! were that fair for either? At shearing who’d prefer

  Horsehair to wool? or when the goat stood handy, suffer her

  To nurse her firstling, and himself go milk a blatant cur?

  COMETAS.

  The same who deemed his hornet’s-buzz the true cicala’s note,

  And braved — like you — his better. And so forsooth you vote

  My kid a trifle? Then come on, fellow! I stake the goat.

  LACON.

  Why be so hot? Art thou on fire? First prythee take thy seat

  ‘Neath this wild woodland olive: thy tones will sound more sweet.

  Here falls a cold rill drop by drop, and green grass-blades uprear

  Their heads, and fallen leaves are thick, and locusts prattle here.

  COMETAS.

  Hot I am not; but hurt I am, and sorely, when I think

  That thou canst look me in the face and never bleach nor blink —

  Me, thine own boyhood’s tutor! Go, train the she-wolf’s brood:

  Train dogs — that they may rend thee! This, this is gratitude!

  LACON.

  When learned I from thy practice or thy preaching aught that’s right,

  Thou puppet, thou misshapen lump of ugliness and spite?

  COMETAS.

  When? When I beat thee, wailing sore: yon goats looked on with glee,

  And bleated; and were dealt with e’en as I had dealt with thee.

  LACON.

  Well, hunchback, shallow be thy grave as was thy judgment then!

  But hither, hither! Thou’lt not dip in herdsman’s lore again.

  COMETAS.

  Nay, here are oaks and galingale: the hum of housing bees

  Makes the place pleasant, and the birds are piping in the trees.

  And here are two cold streamlets; here deeper shadows fall

  Than yon place owns, and look what cones drop from the pinetree tall.

  LACON.

  Come hither, and tread on lambswool that is soft as any dream:

  Still more unsavoury than thyself to me thy goatskins seem.

  Here will I plant a bowl of milk, our ladies’ grace to win;

  And one, as huge, beside it, sweet olive-oil therein.

  COMETAS.

  Come hither, and trample dainty fern and poppy-blossom: sleep

  On goatskins that are softer than thy fleeces piled three deep.

  Here will I plant eight milkpails, great Pan’s regard to gain,

  Bound them eight cups: full honeycombs shall every cup contain.

  LACON.

  Well! there essay thy woodcraft: thence fight me, never budge

  From thine own oak; e’en have thy way. But who shall be our judge?

  Oh, if Lycopas with his kine should chance this way to trudge!

  COMETAS.

  Nay, I want no Lycopas. But hail yon woodsman, do:

  ’Tis Morson — see! his arms are full of bracken — there, by you.

  LACON.

  We’ll hail him.

  COMETAS.

  Ay, you hail him.

  LACON.

  Friend, ‘twill not take thee long:

  We’re striving which is master, we twain, in woodland song:

  And thou, my good friend Morson, ne’er look with favouring eyes

  On me; nor yet to yonder lad be fain to judge the prize.

  COMETAS.

  Nay, by the Nymphs, sweet Morson, ne’er for Cometas’ sake

  Stretch thou a point; nor e’er let him undue advantage take.

  Sibyrtas owns yon wethers; a Thurian is he:

  And here, my friend, Eumares’ goats, of Sybaris, you may see.

  LACON.

  And who asked thee, thou naughty knave, to whom belonged these flocks,

  Sibyrtas, or (it might be) me? Eh, thou’rt a chatter-box!

  COMETAS.

  The simple truth, most worshipful, is all that I allege:

  I’m not for boasting. But thy wit hath all too keen an edge.

  LACON.

  Come sing, if singing’s in thee — and may our friend get back

  To town alive! Heaven help us, lad, how thy tongue doth clack!

  COMETAS. [Sings]

  Daphnis the mighty minstrel was less precious to the Nine

  Than I. I offered yesterday two kids upon their shrine.

  LACON. [Sings]

  Ay, but Apollo fancies me hugely: for him I rear

  A lordly ram: and, look you, the Carnival is near.

  COMETAS.

  Twin kids hath every goat I milk, save two. My maid, my own,

  Eyes me and asks ‘At milking time, rogue, art thou all alone?’

  LACON.

  Go to! nigh twenty baskets doth Lacon fill with cheese:

  Hath time to woo a sweetheart too upon the blossomed leas.

  COMETAS.

  Clarissa pelts her goatherd with apples, should he stray

  By with his goats; and pouts her lip in a quaint charming way.

  LACON.

  Me too a darling smooth of face notes as I tend my flocks:

  How maddeningly o’er that fair neck ripple those shining locks!

  COMETAS.

  Tho’ dogrose and anemone are fair in their degree,

  The rose that blooms by garden-walls still is the rose for me.

  LACON.

  Tho’ acorns’ cups are fair, their taste is bitterness, and still

  I’ll choose, for honeysweet are they, the apples of the hill.

  COMETAS.

  A cushat I will presently procure and give to her

  Who loves me: I know where it sits; up in the juniper.

  LACON.

  Pooh! a soft fleece, to make a coat, I’ll give the day I shear

  My brindled ewe — (no hand but mine shall touch it) — to my dear.

  COMETAS.

  Back, lambs, from that wild-olive: and be content to browse

  Here on the shoulder of the hill, beneath the myrtle boughs.

  LACON.

  Run, (will ye?) Ball and Dogstar, down from that oak tree, run:

  And feed where Spot is feeding, and catch the morning sun.

  COMETAS.

  I have a bowl of cypress-wood: I have besides a cup:

  Praxiteles designed them: for her they’re treasured up.

  LACON.

  I have a dog who throttles wolves: he loves the sheep, and they

  Love him: I’ll give him to my dear, to keep wild beasts at bay.

 
COMETAS.

  Ye locusts that o’erleap my fence, oh let my vines escape

  Your clutches, I beseech you: the bloom is on the grape.

  LACON.

  Ye crickets, mark how nettled our friend the goatherd is!

  I ween, ye cost the reapers pangs as acute as his.

  COMETAS.

  Those foxes with their bushy tails, I hate to see them crawl

  Round Micon’s homestead and purloin his grapes at evenfall.

  LACON.

  I hate to see the beetles that come warping on the wind.

  And climb Philondas’ trees, and leave never a fig behind.

  COMETAS.

  Have you forgot that cudgelling I gave you? At each stroke

  You grinned and twisted with a grace, and clung to yonder oak.

  LACON.

  That I’ve forgot — but I have not, how once Eumares tied

  You to that selfsame oak-trunk, and tanned your unclean hide.

  COMETAS.

  There’s some one ill — of heartburn. You note it, I presume,

  Morson? Go quick, and fetch a squill from some old beldam’s tomb.

  LACON.

  I think I’m stinging somebody, as Morson too perceives —

  Go to the river and dig up a clump of sowbread-leaves.

  COMETAS.

  May Himera flow, not water, but milk: and may’st thou blush,

  Crathis, with wine; and fruitage grow upon every rush.

  LACON.

  For me may Sybaris’ fountain flow, pure honey: so that you,

  My fair, may dip your pitcher each morn in honey-dew.

  COMETAS.

  My goats are fed on clover and goat’s-delight: they tread

  On lentisk leaves; or lie them down, ripe strawberries o’er their head.

  LACON.

  My sheep crop honeysuckle bloom, while all around them blows

  In clusters rich the jasmine, as brave as any rose.

  COMETAS.

  I scorn my maid; for when she took my cushat, she did not

  Draw with both hands my face to hers and kiss me on the spot.

  LACON.

  I love my love, and hugely: for, when I gave my flute,

  I was rewarded with a kiss, a loving one to boot.

  COMETAS.

  Lacon, the nightingale should scarce be challenged by the jay,

  Nor swan by hoopoe: but, poor boy, thou aye wert for a fray.

  MORSON.

  I bid the shepherd hold his peace. Cometas, unto you

  I, Morson, do adjudge the lamb. You’ll first make offering due

  Unto the nymphs: then savoury meat you’ll send to Morson too.

  COMETAS.

  By Pan I will! Snort, all my herd of he-goats: I shall now

  O’er Lacon, shepherd as he is, crow ye shall soon see how.

  I’ve won, and I could leap sky-high! Ye also dance and skip,