Lacon. But I will give my darling a soft fleece to make a cloak, a free gift, when I shear the black ewe.
Comatas. Forth from the wild olive, my bleating she-goats, feed here where the hillside slopes, and the tamarisks grove.
Lacon. Conarus there, and Cynaetha, will you never leave the oak? Graze here, where Phalarus feeds, where the hillside fronts the dawn.
Comatas. Ay, and I have a vessel of cypress wood, and a mixing bowl, the work of Praxiteles, and I hoard them for my maiden.
Lacon. I too have a dog that loves the flock, the dog to strangle wolves; him I am giving to my darling to chase all manner of wild beasts.
Comatas. Ye locusts that overleap our fence, see that ye harm not our vines, for our vines are young.
Lacon. Ye cicalas, see how I make the goatherd chafe: even so, methinks, do ye vex the reapers.
Comatas. I hate the foxes, with their bushy brushes, that ever come at evening, and eat the grapes of Micon.
Lacon. And I hate the lady-birds that devour the figs of Philondas, and flit down the wind.
Comatas. Dost thou not remember how I cudgelled thee, and thou didst grin and nimbly writhe, and catch hold of yonder oak?