While left and right, before, behind,
Your fingers wi-i-i-i-ind
The treasures of the labouring loom,
Fruit of the shuttle's minstrel mind,
Where many a songful dolphin trips
To lead the dark-blue-beakèd ships,
And tosses with aërial touch
Temples and race-courses and such.
O bright grape tendril's essence pure,
Wine to sweep care from human lips;
Grant me, O child, one arm-pressúre!"
[Breaking off.
That foot, you see?
Dionysus.
I do.
Aeschylus.
And he?
Euripides.
Of course I see the foot!
Aeschylus.
And this is the stuff to trial you bring
And face my songs with the kind of thing
That a man might sing When he dances a fling
To mad Cyrênê's flute!
There, that's your choral stuff! But I've not finished,
I want to show the spirit of his solos!
