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.