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Page 5
CHORUS.
Queen, but what is it that hath burnt thine heart?
For thy speech flickers like a brown-out flame.
ALTHAEA.
Look, ye say well, and know not what ye say,
For all my sleep is turned into a fire,
And all my dreams to stuff that kindles it.
CHORUS.
Yet one doth well being patient of the gods.
ALTHAEA.
Yea, lest they smite us with some four-foot plague.
CHORUS.
But when time spreads find out some herb for it.
ALTHAEA.
And with their healing herbs infect our blood.
CHORUS.
What ails thee to be jealous of their ways?
ALTHAEA.
What if they give us poisonous drinks for wine?
CHORUS.
They have their will; much talking mends it not.
ALTHAEA.
And gall for milk, and cursing for a prayer?
CHORUS.
Have they not given life, and the end of life?
ALTHAEA.
Lo, where they heal, they help not; thus they do,
They mock us with a little piteousness,
And we say prayers, and weep; but at the last,
Sparing awhile, they smite and spare no whit.
CHORUS.
Small praise man gets dispraising the high gods:
What have they done that thou dishonourest them?
ALTHAEA.
First Artemis for all this harried land
I praise not; and for wasting of the boar
That mars with tooth and tusk and fiery feet
Green pasturage and the grace of standing corn
And meadow and marsh with springs and unblown leaves,
Flocks and swift herds and all that bite sweet grass,
I praise her not, what things are these to praise?
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