H poet of tbe poor 



unerring vision which discerns the foun- 

 dation-Hnes 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 Cory don ? 



So the half joking, half bitter badinage 

 proceeds until a singing match is proposed 

 no 



