GORGO. 
    Where did he spring from?  Is our prattle aught
    To you, Sir?  Order your own slaves about: 
    You’re ordering Syracusan ladies now!

    Corinthians bred (to tell you one fact more)
    As was Bellerophon:  islanders in speech,
    For Dorians may talk Doric, I presume?

    PRAXINOAe. 
    Persephone! none lords it over me,
    Save one!  No scullion’s-wage for us from you!

GORGO.  Hush, dear.  The Argive’s daughter’s going to sing The Adonis:  that accomplished vocalist Who has no rival in “The Sailor’s Grave.”  Observe her attitudinizing now.

    Song. 
    Queen, who lov’st Golgi and the Sicel hill
      And Ida; Aphrodite radiant-eyed;
    The stealthy-footed Hours from Acheron’s rill
      Brought once again Adonis to thy side
    How changed in twelve short months!  They travel slow,
      Those precious Hours:  we hail their advent still,
    For blessings do they bring to all below. 
      O Sea-born! thou didst erst, or legend lies,
    Shed on a woman’s soul thy grace benign,
      And Berenice’s dust immortalize. 
    O called by many names, at many a shrine! 
      For thy sweet sake doth Berenice’s child
    (Herself a second Helen) deck with all
      That’s fair, Adonis.  On his right are piled
    Ripe apples fallen from the oak-tree tall;
      And silver caskets at his left support
    Toy-gardens, Syrian scents enshrined in gold
      And alabaster, cakes of every sort
    That in their ovens the pastrywomen mould,
      When with white meal they mix all flowers that bloom,
    Oil-cakes and honey-cakes.  There stand portrayed
      Each bird, each butterfly; and in the gloom
    Of foliage climbing high, and downward weighed
      By graceful blossoms, do the young Loves play
    Like nightingales, and perch on every tree,
      And flit, to try their wings, from spray to spray. 
    Then see the gold, the ebony!  Only see
      The ivory-carven eagles, bearing up
      To Zeus the boy who fills his royal cup! 
    Soft as a dream, such tapestry gleams o’erhead
      As the Milesian’s self would gaze on, charmed. 
    But sweet Adonis hath his own sweet bed: 
      Next Aphrodite sleeps the roseate-armed,
    A bridegroom of eighteen or nineteen years. 
      Kiss the smooth boyish lip—­there’s no sting there! 
    The bride hath found her own:  all bliss be hers! 
      And him at dewy dawn we’ll troop to bear
    Down where the breakers hiss against the shore: 
      There, with dishevelled dress and unbound hair,
    Bare-bosomed all, our descant wild we’ll pour: