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.