Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528365" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Two Workmen</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">MILO. BATTUS.<br>MILO.<br>Well, my poor ploughman, and what ails thee now?<br>Thy furrow lies not even as of yore:<br>They fellows leave behind thy lagging plough,<br>As the flock leaves a ewe whose feet are sore:<br>By noon and midday what will be thy plight<br>If now, so soon, thy coulter fails to bite?<br> <br>BATTUS.<br>Hewn from hard rocks, untired at set of sun,<br>Milo, didst ne'er regret some absent one?<br> <br>MILO.<br>Not I. What time have workers for regret?<br> <br>BATTUS.<br>Hath love ne'er kept thee from thy slumbers yet?<br> <br>MILO.<br>Nay, heaven forbid! If once the cat taste cream!<br> <br>BATTUS.<br>Milo, these ten days love hath been my dream.<br> <br>MILO.<br>You drain your wine, while vinegar's scarce with me.<br> <br>BATTUS.<br>-Hence since last spring untrimmed my borders be.<br> <br>MILO.<br>And what lass flouts thee?<br> <br>BATTUS.<br>She whom we heard play<br>Amongst Hippocoon's reapers yesterday.<br> <br>MILO.<br>Your sins have found you out-you're e'en served right:<br>You'll clasp a corn-crake in your arms all night.<br> <br>BATTUS.<br>You laugh: but headstrong Love is blind no less<br>Than Plutus: talking big is foolishness.<br> <br>MILO.<br>I don't talk big. But lay the corn-ears low<br>And sing the while some love-song-easier so<br>Will seem your toil: you used to sing, I know.<br> <br>BATTUS.<br>Maids of Pieria, of my slim lass sing!<br>One touch of yours ennobles everything. [Sings.]<br>My sweet! on thy complexion men remark;<br>Call thee shrunk, swart: I call thee olive-brown.<br>Violets and pencilled hyacinths are dark,<br>Yet first of flowers they're chosen for a crown.<br>As goats pursue the clover, wolves the goat,<br>And cranes the ploughman, upon thee I dote.<br> <br>Had I but Croesus' wealth, we twain should stand,<br>Gold-sculptured, in Love's temple: thou should'st play<br>Thy pipe, a rose or apple in thy hand,<br>I flaunt my minstrel's robe and sandals gay.<br>Bombyca! twinkling ebony are thy feet,<br>Honey thy mouth, thy ways none knows how sweet!<br> <br>MILO.<br>Fine verses can this unknown herdsman make-<br>How shone the artist in each measured line!<br>Why, lad, that beard grew on thee by mistake!<br>List to this stave, by Lytierse the divine. [Sings.]<br> <br>O rich in fruit and cornblade: be this field<br>Tilled well, Demeter, and fair fruitage yield!<br> <br>Bind the sheaves, reapers: lest one, passing, say-<br>'A fig for these, they're never worth their pay.'<br> <br>Let the mown swathes look northward, ye who mow,<br>Or westward-for the ears grow fattest so.<br> <br>Avoid a noontide nap, ye threshing men:<br>The chaff flies thickest from the corn-ears then.<br> <br>Wake when the lark wakes; when he slumbers, close<br>Your work, ye reapers: and at noontide doze.<br> <br>Boys, the frogs' life for me! They need not him<br>Who fills the flagon, for in drink they swim.<br> <br>Better boil herbs, thou toiler after gain,<br>Than, splitting cummin, split thy hand in twain.<br> <br>This that I've sung thee, ploughman, is a tune<br>For men to sing that swelter in the sun.<br>Thy meagre love-tale is a thing to croon<br>In thy mamma's ear when her dreams are done.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Theocritus">Theocritus</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=528365" data-title="The Two Workmen de Theocritus" data-description="MILO. BATTUS.
MILO.
Well, my poor ploughman, and what ails thee now?
Thy furrow lies not even as of yore:
They fellows leave behind thy lagging plough,
As the flock leaves a ewe whose feet are sore:
By noon and midday what will be thy plight
If no..."></div>
</div>
</div>