Night, a black hound, follows the white fawn day, Swifter than dreams the white flown feet of sleep; Will ye pray back the night with any prayers? And though the spring put back a little while Winter, and snows that plague all men for sin, And the iron time of cursing, yet I know Spring shall be ruined with the rain, and storm Eat up like fire the ashen autumn days. I marvel what men do with prayers awake Who dream and die with dreaming; any god, Yea the least god of all things called divine, Is more than sleep and waking; yet we say, Perchance by praying a man shall match his god. For if sleep have no mercy, and man's dreams Bite to the blood and burn into the bone, What shall this man do waking? By the gods, He shall not pray to dream sweet things to-night, Having dreamt once more bitter things than death. 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? CHORUS. But when the king did sacrifice, and gave Each god fair dues of wheat and blood and wine, Her not with bloodshed nor burnt-offering Revered he, nor with salt or cloven cake; Wherefore being wroth she plagued the land, but now Takes off from us fate and her heavy things. Which deed of these twain were not good to praise? For a just deed looks always either way With blameless eyes, and mercy is no fault. ALTHAEA.