I warn thee, keep thy distance. Look, up she creeps again!
Oh were my hare-crook in nay hand, I'd give it to her then!

BATTUS.
For heaven's sake, Corydon, look here! Just now a bramble-spike
Ran, there, into my instep--and oh how deep they strike,
Those lancewood-shafts! A murrain light on that calf, I say!
I got it gaping after her. Canst thou discern it, pray?

CORYDON.
Ay, ay; and here I have it, safe in my finger-nails.

BATTUS.
Eh! at how slight a matter how tall a warrior quails!

CORYDON.
Ne'er range the hill-crest, Battus, all sandal-less and bare:
Because the thistle and the thorn lift aye their plumed heads there.

BATTUS.
--Say, Corydon, does that old man we wot of (tell me please!)
Still haunt the dark-browed little girl whom once he used to tease?

CORYDON.
Ay my poor boy, that doth he: I saw them yesterday
Down by the byre; and, trust me, loving enough were they.

BATTUS.
Well done, my veteran light-o'-love! In deeming thee mere man,
I wronged thy sire: some Satyr he, or an uncouth-limbed Pan.