From Theocritus.

IDYLL. VII.     Scarce midway were we yet, nor yet descried     The stone that hides what once was Brasidas:     When there drew near a wayfarer from Crete,     Young Lycidas, the Muses' votary.     The horned herd was his care: a glance might tell     So much: for every inch a herdsman he.     Slung o'er his shoulder was a ruddy hide     Torn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,     That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt clasped     A patched cloak round his breast, and for a staff     A gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.     Soon with a quiet smile he spoke - his eye     Twinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:     "And whither ploddest thou thy weary way     Beneath the noontide sun, Simichides?     For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,     The crested lark hath closed his wandering wing.     Speed'st thou, a bidd'n guest, to some reveller's board?     Or townwards, to the treading of the grape?     For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feet     The pavement-stones ring out right merrily."