Take up thy destiny of short delight; I am thy lady for a summer's night, Lift up your viols, maidens of my train, And work such havoc on this mortal's brain That for a moment he may touch and know Immortal things, and be full Pierrot, White music, Nymphs! Violet and Eglantine! To stir his tired veins like magic wine, What visitants across his spirit glance, Lying on lilies, while he watch me dance? Watch, and forget all weary things on earth, All memories and cares, all joy and mirth, While my dance woos him, light and rhythmical, And weaves his heart into my coronal. Music, more music for his soul's delight: Love is his lady for a summer's night. [_Pierrot reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and stands at her side._] PIERROT. Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody? THE LADY. Pan made it long ago in Arcady. PIERROT. I heard it long ago, I know not where, As I knew thee, or ever I came here. But I forgot all things--my name and race, All that I ever knew except thy face. Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me, That I may tell it like a rosary. Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees, How art thou designate--art thou Heart's-Ease? THE LADY. Waste not the night in idle questioning, Since Love departs at dawn's awakening. PIERROT. Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state, Since thou art lovely and passionate. Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre. THE LADY. I am to each the face of his desire. PIERROT. I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove, Who craves a refuge on the breast of love. THE LADY. What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon? Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon. PIERROT. Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car, Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star-- Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,-- Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies, Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids, Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades; Mount me beside thee, bear me far away From the low regions of the solar day; Over the rainbow, up into the moon, Where is thy palace and thine opal throne; There on thy bosom-- THE LADY. Too ambitious boy! I did but promise thee one hour of joy. This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light, Could hardly be completed in a night. Hast thou no craving less remote than this? PIERROT. Would it be impudent to beg a kiss? THE LADY. I say not that: yet prithee have a care! Often audacity has proved a snare. How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow-- Does thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot? PIERROT. As one who faints upon the Libyan plain Fears the oasis which brings life again! THE LADY. Where far away green palm trees seem to stand May be a mirage of the wreathing sand. PIERROT.