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How Eunoe squeezes us! Do, child, make way For your own self. There,-now we're all got in, As the man said, when he turned the key on his

bride. Gor. Praxinoe, do look here ; what lovely ta

pestry; How fine and graceful! One would think the Gods

did it. Prax. Holy Minerva ! How those artists work ! How they do paint their pictures to the life ! The figures stand so like, and move so like ! They're quite alive! not worked !-Well, certainly, Man's a wise thing. And look how wonderful, He lies there on his silver couch, all budding With the young' down about his face ;--Adonis, Charming Adonis, charming ev'n in Acheron ! 2d Man. Do hold your tongues there,-chatter,

chatter, chatter :

:

The turtles stun one with their yawning gabble.*

Gor. Hey day, whence comes the man! What

is't to you,

If we do chatter? Rule where you've a right.
You don't rule Syracusans; and for that,
Our people are from Corinth, like Bellerophon.
Our tongue’s Peloponnesiac; and we hope
It's lawful for the Dorians to speak Doric!
Prac. We've but one master, by the Honey-

sweet! t. And don't fear you, nor all your empty blows. Gor. Hush, hush, Praxinoe ;—there's the Gre

cian girl, A most accomplished creature, going to sing About Adonis ; she that sings so well

* The Syracusans, a colony from Corinth, spoke the Dorian dialect, which was full of a's.

+ An epithet of the favourite Sicilian deity, Proserpine, as that of “ Adorable” was, which Gorgo uses before.

The song of Sperchis; she'll sing something fine, I warrant :-see, how sweetly she prepares !

THE SONG.

O lady, who dost take delight
In Golgos and the Erycian height,
And in the Idalian dell,
Venus, ever amiable;
Lo, the long-expected Hours,
Slowest of the blessed powers,
Yet who bring us something ever,
Ceasing their soft dancing never,
Bring thee back thy beauteous one
From perennial Acheron.
Thou, they say, from earth hast given
Berenice place in heaven,
Dropping to her woman's heart
Ambrosia ; and for this kind part,

Berenice's daughter, she
That's Helen-like,--Arsinoe,
O thou many-named and shrined,
Is to thy Adonis kind.
He has all the fruits that now
Hang upon the timely bough:
He has green young garden-plots,
Basketed in silver pots ;
Syrian scents in alabaster;

And whate'er a curious taster

Could desire, that woman make
With oil or honey, of meal cake ;
And all shapes of beast or bird,
In the woods by huntsman stirred;
And a bower to shade his state
Heaped with dill, an amber weight;
And about him, Cupids flying,
Like young nightingales, that trying

a

Their new wings, go half afraid,
Here and there, within the shade.
See the gold! The ebony see!
And the eagles in ivory,
Bearing the young Trojan up
To be filler of Jove's cup ;
And the tapestry's purple heap,
Softer than the feel of sleep ;-
Artists, contradict who can,

Samian or Milesian.

But another couch there is

For Adonis, close to his ;

Venus has it, and with joy:
Clasps again her blooming boy
With a kiss that feels no fret,
For his lips are downy yet.
Happy with her love be she.
But to-morrow morn will we:

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