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.
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