Battus:
Tell me, o Corydon, whose are those cows? Philonides'?
Corydon:
No, rather Egon's– he has given them for me to feed.
Battus:
Perhaps in secret while it's eve you milk them all?
Corydon:
But th' old man gives the calves their dam and watches me.
Battus:
And to what country has this absent cowherd gone?
Corydon:
You haven't heard? To Alpheus went Milon, leading him.
Battus:
Since when has he had eyes for olive-oil?
Corydon:
They say he rivals Heracles in strength and might.
Battus:
My mother used to claim me stronger than Polýdeuces.
Corydon:
Off he went, taking both a spade and twenty sheep.
Battus:
That Milon could persuade the ewe to rave against the wolf.
Corydon:
The steers yearn for their master, those that moo.
Battus:
They're mis'rable. What lousy cowherd they have found.
Corydon:
They're mis'rable indeed, nor longer wish to graze.
Battus:
Why, that one's nothing of a heifer left
But bones. Could she on dewdrops feed, as the cicada does?
Corydon:
Of course not. Sometimes I graze her at Esarus
and give her a fine bundle of soft hay,
and other times she frisks on deeply-shaded Latymnum.
Battus:
The bull is also thin– that red one. May they of
Lampriades allot, whene'er their demesmen sacrifice
To Hera, such a bull, for they're a deme of knaves.
Corydon:
What's more, he's driven to Stomalimnum, and Physcus' house,
And to Neëthus, where all lovely things are grown:
Rest-harrow, fleabane, aromatic balm.
Battus:
Alas, alas! Those cows will walk, o sorry Egon, on
To Death, since even you desire ill victory,
Withal the syrinx, which once you built, is o'erlaid with mould.
Corydon:
Not so, not by the Nymphs: when going off to Pisa he
Left it for me, a gift. I'm somewhat a musician, too,
And finely strike up Glauce's songs, finely Pyrrhus' notes.
It's Croton I revere, a city fine as Zácynthus,
And th' eastern Lacinium, where a boxer, that
Is Egon, ate up eighty loaves of barley by himself.
It's there he led the bull from on the mount, squeezing hard
Its hoof, and gave to Amaryllis. Though the women gave
A roaring shout, the cowherd laughed aloud.
Battus:
O charming Amaryllis, you alone, though dead,
We shan't forget. As dear to me as are my goats, you died.
How very harsh the god that me commands.
Corydon:
Take heart, fond Battus. Soon will be a better morn.
There's hope for living men, but hopeless are the dead.
The Sky is sometimes sunny, rainy other times.
Battus:
I shall. Bring down the calves, for olive-tree's
Young sprig is what they ruinously munch. Lepargus, come.
Corydon:
Cymethe, come toward the hilltop. Don't you hear?
I'll come, indeed by Pan, and straightaway dispense your doom
If you don't come from thence. Behold, again she wanders back.
If only I had the crook of my staff to beat you down.
Battus:
Look here, o Corydon, by Zeus. The thorn
Just now thus picked me in the ankle. And how tall
The spindle-thistles are! Let that calf go to hell.
While after her I followed, I was pricked. Do you see it?
Corydon:
Yes, yes, I see and hold it in my fingertips. It's here.
Battus:
How small the wound is, yet it beats so big a man.
Corydon:
When you go to the mountain, do not barefoot, Battus, go.
For on the mount the shrubs and brambles grow out long.
Battus:
So tell me, Corydon, does yet the little old man 'mill'
That dark-browed darling, who once him did tease?
Corydon:
Still does, the scoundrel. Th' other day he came
And took her by the byre while she was working there.
Battus:
Fantastic! Lech'rous man, in nature you the Satyrs or
With even weak-legged Pans contest.
