University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Pisthetærus, Chorus, Poet.
Pisthetærus.
Thus sacrificing offer we our vows
To the wing'd Gods.

Poet.
‘Cuckoocloudland's praise to sing,
Strike, O Muse, the sounding string.’

Pisthetærus.
What have we here? Whence dost thou drop from? Eh?
What art thou?

Poet.
‘One, who shed the chords along,
Torrents of mellifluous song—
In the Muses' service I:’
As Homer hath it.

Pisthetærus.
What! in service?
Yet pluming thyself so much on thy tresses?

Poet.
Not so; no. But ‘all minstrels we
In the Muses' service be:’
As Homer hath it.

Pisthetærus.
Troth, and thy jacket has seen service too.
But, poet, what brings thee hither with a vengeance?

Poet.
I have made odes upon your Cuckoocloudlands,
Odes, Cyclian melodies, many and beautiful,
Songs to be sung by virgins, and in the gusto
Of Simonides.

Pisthetærus.
Ay? and how long is't, prythee,
Since thou hast made them?

Poet.
Oh some time, some time
'Tis since I've tuned my lyre to exalt your city.

Pisthetærus.
What? Am not I e'en now employ'd i'th'rites,
The sacred rites, that tend the naming on't,
Like to an infant's naming on his tenth day?

Poet.
But ‘swift the report of the Nine,
Like the many-twinkling feet
Of horses fleet.
And thou, O sire,
Founder of Ætna; yea, a title thine,
Derived from holiest things divine,
Give what thou wouldst thyself desire:
The tinkling wire I wake,
And that, which tinkleth, take.’

Pisthetærus.
A mischief this we shall have trouble enough with,
Unless we give him somewhat, and so rid him.
Ho! thou'st a jerkin and a coat upon thee,
[To one of the attendants.
Strip and impart to this sweet poet. Here,
Take thou this jerkin; thou seem'st chill; 'twill warm thee.

Poet.
‘Not loth the Muse admits the boon:
And thou in turn
A word of Pindar learn.’

Pisthetærus.
The fellow's not so easily despatch'd.

Poet.
‘O'er Scythia's wild untrodden ways,
Straton with savage herdmen strays;
Yet ah! he hath possest
No interwoven vest.
Inglorious and a prey to scorn,
The jerkin is, I ween,
That without coat is worn.
Thou knowest what I mean.’

Pisthetærus.
I know thou wouldst fain have the coat beside.
Well; strip: for we must needs oblige the poet.
And now thou'st got it, quick, be off.

Poet.
I'm gone:
Yet at departing one more strain will utter
Upon this blessed city.
‘O thou, that sitt'st in golden chair,
Her mighty praise declare.
Frigid, teeth-chattering, pure serene,
Smit with eternal snows,
The ever-fruitful scene,
O'er which my step admiring goes.
Io Pæan! Io Pæan!’
Thank Jupiter, however, I have 'scaped
This pure serene by the warm coat they've given me.

[Exit the Poet, wrapping the coat about him.
Pisthetærus.
This was, by Jove, a curse I little dreamt of,
That such a scurvy fellow should so speedily
Have of our city gain'd intelligence.
Again take up the ewer and pace around.