DORIS A good-looking lover they say you have, Galatea,
in this Sicilian shepherd who’s so mad about you! GALATEA None of your jokes, Doris. He’s Poseidon’s son,
whatever he looks like. DORIS What of it? Though it was a son of Zeus himself
that had so wild and hairy an appearance and, most
hideous thing of all, only one eye, do you think his
birth would help him to be any better-looking? GALATEA His wild and hairy appearance, as you call it, isn’t
ugly. It’s manly. And his eye goes very nicely
with his forehead, and it sees just as well as if it
were two. DORIS My dear Galatea, from the way you’re praising
him, it looks as if your Polyphemus is more loved
than loving. GALATEA That’s not true; but the way you all criticise
him annoys me. If you ask me, I think you’re
jealous of the day when, looking after his sheep,
he caught sight of us from his watch-point, as we
were playing on the shore at the foot of Etna,
where there’s a long stretch of beach between the
mountain and the sea. He didn’t even look at you,
but thought me the prettiest of us all, and was all
eye for me and me only. That’s what’s annoying
you; because it proves that I’m better than any
of you, and that I deserve to be loved. None of
you got so much as a glance. DORIS Do you think people should be jealous of you, just
because a shepherd with bad eyesight thought you
pretty? Anyhow, what could he see to praise in
you but your white skin? And he only likes that,
I imagine, because he’s used to cheese and milk, and
so thinks everything like them pretty. . Apart from
all that, any time you want to find out what your
face really looks like, take a peep into the water
from a rock when it’s calm and look at yourself.
You’re nothing but white skin. Nobody thinks
much of that, unless there’s some rosy colour as well
to show it off. GALATEA Still, though I am unrelieved white, I have got a
lover, even if it’s only Polyphemus. But not one of
you has any shepherd or sailor or boatman to admire
her. Besides, Polyphemus is musical. DORIS You’d better not talk about that, Galatea. We
heard his singing the other day, when he came serenading
you. Gracious Aphrodite! Anyone would
have taken it for the braying of an ass. And as
for the lyre itself! What a thing it was! The
fleshless skull of a stag! Its horns served as the
arms of the lyre and he’d joined them with a yoke,
and fitted on his strings, without bothering to twist
them round a peg, so that his performance was
scarcely tuneful or harmonious, with him roaring
away himself in one key, and his lyre accompanying
him in another. So we just couldn’t help laughing
at such attempts at a love song. For even Echo,
who’s such a chatterbox, wouldn’t so much as
answer his bellowing, but was ashamed to be caught
imitating such a rough, ridiculous song. And your
Prince Charming was carrying in his arms as his
little plaything a bear-cub just as hairy as himself.
Who wouldn’t envy you such a lover, Galatea? GALATEA Well, Doris, let us see your own lover. Obviously
he’s handsomer, more musical and a better player of
the harp. DORIS I’ve not got one. I don’t pride myself on being
a charmer. But as for a fellow like your Cyclops,
that smells as rank as any he-goat, and, by all accounts,
eats his meat raw, and makes a meal of
visiting strangers—may you keep him for yourself,
and ever return his affection.