Milan. ’Tis easily seen that thou drawest from a wine-cask, while even vinegar is scarce with me.
Battus. And for Love’s sake, the fields before my doors are untilled since seed-time.
Milan. But which of the girls afflicts thee so?
Battus. The daughter of Polybotas, she that of late was wont to pipe to the reapers on Hippocoon’s farm.
Milan. God has found out the guilty! Thou hast what thou’st long been seeking, that grasshopper of a girl will lie by thee the night long!
Battus. Thou art beginning thy mocks of me, but Plutus is not the only blind god; he too is blind, the heedless Love! Beware of talking big.
Milan. Talk big I do not! Only see that thou dust level the corn, and strike up some love-ditty in the wench’s praise. More pleasantly thus wilt thou labour, and, indeed, of old thou wert a melodist.
Battus. Ye Muses Pierian, sing ye with me the slender maiden, for whatsoever ye do but touch, ye goddesses, ye make wholly fair.
They all call thee a gipsy, gracious Bombyca, and lean, and sunburnt, ’tis only I that call thee honey-pale.
Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered hyacinth, but yet these flowers are chosen the first in garlands.