H poet of tbe poor 



unerring vision which discerns the foun- 

 dation-lines of specific character. If I 

 were asked to select from the literatures 

 of all countries and of all ages the very 

 best dramatic presentation of crude, coarse, 

 rustic wit, my choice would certainly be 

 Idyl V, wherein Comatas and Lacon fling 

 back and forth between them their back- 

 handed, clownish compliments. The piece 

 opens thus: 



Comatas. 



Keep clear, my goats, of that notorious thief 

 Lacon, the shepherd, who my goatskin stole. 



Lacon. 



Hi, my lambs, run quickly from the spring ! 

 That Comatas, don't you see him ? He who 



filched 

 The other day my syrinx, he 's the lark. 



Comatas. 



A pipe, indeed! What kind? When had you 



one? 

 You underling, you slave of Sibyrtas ! 

 When did you quit a tooting on a flute 

 Of straw-stems cheap with little Corydon ? 



So the half joking, half bitter badinage 

 proceeds until a singing match is proposed 

 no 



