CORYDON.
Yet to the Salt Lake's edges I drive him, I can swear;
Up Physcus, up Neæthus' side—he lacks not victual there,
With dittany and endive and foxglove for his fare.
BATTUS.
Well, well! I pity Ægon. His cattle, go they must
To rack and ruin, all because vain-glory was his lust.
The pipe that erst he fashioned is doubtless scored with rust?
CORYDON.
Nay, by the Nymphs! That pipe he left to me, the self-same day