BATTUS.

The child of Polybotas-the sweet singer,

Who for the mowers at Hippocoon's chaunted.

MILON.

Sinners heaven pricks-you have what long you wanted; A dry tree-frog will hug you close in bed.

BATTUS.

None of your jibes: care-breeding Love is said,

And not old Plutus only, to be blind.

Don't talk too big.

MILON.

I do not only mind

To cut the corn down, and some love-song try
About your girl; you'll work more pleasantly:
And Battus once, at least, was musical.

BATTUS.

To sing my charmer, slender, straight, and tall,
Best Muses! aid me; for, with skill divine,

Ye, whatsoe'er ye please to touch, refine.

Lovely Bombyce! tho' all men beside
Call you a Syrian sun-embrowned, and dried,
I call you a transparent sweet brunette.
The lettered hyacinth and violet

Are dark; yet these are chosen first of all
For the sweet wreath and festive coronal.
The goat the cytisus, the wolf the goat,
And cranes pursue the plough -on thee I dote.
Would that I had the wealth report hath told
Belonged to Croesus! wrought in purest gold,
Statutes of both of us should then be seen,
Due dedications to the Cyprian Queen :
Thou with a flute, an apple, and a rose;

I sandalled, in a robe that proudly flows.
Lovely Bombyce! beautiful your feet,

Twinkling like the quick dice; your voice is sweet;
But your sweet nature language cannot tell.

MILON.

He privily hath learned to sing-how well!

But my poor chin in vain this great beard nurses; List to a snatch or two of Lytierses.

Damater! fruit-abounding! grant this field Be duly wrought, and rich abundance yield.

Bind without waste, sheaf-binder! lest one say, These men of fig-wood are not worth their pay. Let the sheaf-hillock look to north or west; The corn, so lying, fills and ripens best.

Ye threshers! let not sleep steal on your eyes At noon - for then the chaff most freely flies.

Up with the lark to reap, and cease as soon As the lark sleeps - but rest yourself at noon. Happy the frog's life! none, his drink to pour, He looks for he has plenty evermore.

Boil, niggard steward! the lentil; and take heed, Don't cut your hand to split a cumin-seed.

Men toiling in the sun such songs befit;
Your puling love, poor rustic little-wit!

Is only fit - to whisper in her ears,

When your old mother wakes as dawn appears.

IDYL XI.

THE CYCLOPS.

ARGUMENT.

The poet addresses the poem to his friend Nicias, the physician, and asserts that there is no remedy for love but the Muses. He then introduces Polypheme, sitting on a rock that overlooks the sea, and beguiling his care with song. The Cyclops reproaches Galatea with her pride and indifference; states that he is aware she rejects his love because his features are not such as feminie delight to look on, but mentions his wealth, which he invites her to partake. He breaks into an expression of his passionate longing for her presence; and blames his mother for not pleading his cause with the fair sea-nymph. He at last checks himself, and prudently resolves to desist from a vain pursuit ; solacing himself with the conviction that other maidens look on him more favourably.