But I will say, 'My head and feet do ache,' that she may whine,
And sorrow at the heart: because my heart with grief is swoll'n.
"O Cyclops, Cyclops! whither is thy wit and reason flown?
If thou would'st baskets make; and cut down brouzing from the tree,
And bring it to thy lambs, a great deal wiser thou should'st be!
Go, coy some present Nymph! Why dost thou follow flying wind?
Perhaps another Galate, and fairer, thou shalt find!
}
For many Maidens in the evening tide with me will play,{
And all do sweetly laugh, when I stand heark'ning what they say:{