Comatas. Nay, but an if thou wilt come, thou shalt tread here the soft feathered fern, and flowering thyme, and beneath thee shall be strown the skins of she-goats, four times more soft than the fleeces of thy lambs. And I will set out eight bowls of milk for Pan, and eight bowls full of the richest honeycombs.
Lacon. Thence, where thou art, I pray thee, begin the match, and there sing thy country song, tread thine own ground and keep thine oaks to thyself. But who, who shall judge between us? Would that Lycopas, the neatherd, might chance to come this way!
Comatas. I want nothing with him, but that man, if thou wilt, that woodcutter we will call, who is gathering those tufts of heather near thee. It is Morson.
Lacon. Let us shout, then!
Comatas. Call thou to him.
Lacon. Ho, friend, come hither and listen for a little while, for we two have a match to prove which is the better singer of country song. So Morson, my friend, neither judge me too kindly, no, nor show him favour.
Comatas. Yes, dear Morson, for the nymphs’ sake neither lean in thy judgment to Comatas, nor, prithee, favour him. The flock of sheep thou seest here belongs to Sibyrtas of Thurii, and the goats, friend, that thou beholdest are the goats of Eumarides of Sybaris.
Lacon. Now, in the name of Zeus did any one ask thee, thou make-mischief, who owned the flock, I or Sibyrtas? What a chatterer thou art!
Comatas. Best of men, I am for speaking the whole truth, and boasting never, but thou art too fond of cutting speeches.
Lacon. Come, say whatever thou hast to say, and let the stranger get home to the city alive; oh, Paean, what a babbler thou art, Comatas!