IDYL X. THE REAPERS. BATTUS AND MILON. MILON. PLOUGHMAN, what is the matter with you, pray ? If you cannot the furrow now devour, What will you be, my friend, at evening hour? BATTUS. You rock-chip, reaping till the sun's descent, MILON. Never. A labourer's heart with love-grief ache! BATTUS. Did you ne'er chance for love to lie awake? MILON. No-never may I! When a dog has eaten BATTUS. I'm deep in love—almost eleven days. MILON. From a full wine-cask you your fancies raise; I have not even vinegar enough. BATTUS. Thence lie the sweepings of all sort of stuff Before my door. MILON. Who is your mischief-bringer? 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 BATTUS. To sing my charmer, slender, straight, and tall, Lovely Bombyce! tho' all men beside Are dark; yet these are chosen first of all I sandalled, in a robe that proudly flows. Twinkling like the quick dice; your voice is sweet; 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. |