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. .

DORIS

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.

DORIS

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.

Doris

A handsome lover, Galatea, this Sicilian shepherd who they say is so mad for you!

Galatea

Don’t be sarcastic, Doris; he is Posidon’s son, after all.

Doris

Well, and if he were Zeus’s, and still such a wild shaggy creature, with only one eye (there is nothing uglier than to have only one eye), do you think his birth would improve his beauty?

Galatea

Shagginess and wildness, as you call them, are not ugly in a man; and his eye looks very well in the middle of his forehead, and sees just as well as if it were two.

Doris

Why, my dear, from your raptures about him one would think it was you that were in love, not he.

Galatea

Oh no, I am not in love; but it is too bad, your all running him down as you do. It is my belief you are jealous. Do you remember? we were playing on the shore at the foot of Etna, where the long strip of beach comes between the mountain and the sea; he was feeding his sheep, and spied us from above; yes, but he never so much as glanced at the rest of you; I was the pretty one; he was all eyes—eye, I mean— for me. That is what makes you spiteful, because it showed I was better than you, good enough to be loved, while you were taken no notice of.

Doris

Hoity-toity! jealous indeed! because a one-eyed shepherd thinks you pretty! Why, what could he see in you but your white skin? and he only cared for that because it reminded him of cheese and milk; he thinks everything pretty that is like them.

Doris

If you want to know any more than that about your looks, sit on a rock when it is calm, and lean over the water; just a bit of white skin, that is all; and who cares for that, if it is not picked out with some red?

Galatea

Well, if I am all white, I have got a lover of some sort; there is not a-shepherd or a sailor or a boatman to care for any of you. Besides, Polyphemus is very musical.

Doris

Take care, dear; we heard him singing the other day when he serenaded you. Heavens! one would have taken him for an ass braying. And his lyre! what a thing! A stag’s skull, with its horns for the uprights; he put a bar across, and fastened on the strings without any tuning-pegs! then came the performance, all harsh and out of tune; he shouted something himself, and the lyre played something else, and the love ditty sent us into fits of laughter. Why, Echo, chatterbox that she is, would not answer him; she was ashamed to be caught mimicking such a rough ridiculous song.

Doris

Oh, and the pet that your beau brought you in his arms!—a bear cub nearly as shaggy as himself. Now then, Galatea, do you still think we envy you your lover?

Galatea

Well, Doris, only show us your own; no doubt he is much handsomer, and sings and plays far better.

Doris

Oh, I have not got one; I do not set up to be lovely. But one like the Cyclops—faugh, he might be one of his own goats!—he eats raw meat, they say, and feeds on travellers— one like him, dear, you may keep; I wish you nothing worse than to return his love.