[Almost weeping.
—But he rose, rose, in the air
On quivering blades of flight;
He left me care, care;
And tears, tears of despair,
Fell, fell, and dimmed my sight!
[Recovering himself; in florid, tragic style.
Children of Ida's snows,
Cretans, take up your bows,
And ring the house with many a leaping limb!
And thou, fair maid of bliss,
Dictynna, Artemis,
Range with thy bandogs through each corner dim;
Yea, Thou of twofold Fires,
Grant me my deep desires,
Thou Zeus-born Hecatê; in all men's eyes
Let the detective sheen
Flashed from thy torches keen,
Light me to Glykê's house, and that lost fowl surprise!"
Dionysus.
Come, stop the singing!
Aeschylus.
I've had quite enough!
What I want is to bring him to the balance;
The one sure test of what our art is worth!
Dionysus.
So that's my business next? Come forward, please;
I'll weigh out poetry like so much cheese!
