There are only two distributions: good and ill mixed, and unmixed ill. None, as Heyne has observed, receive unmixed good. Ex dolio bonorum.... GRYLLUS More than one drop, I fear, And those of bitter water. CIRCE There is yet An ample field of scientific triumph: What shall we show him next? SFIRIT-RAPPER Pause we awhile, He is not in the mood to feel conviction Of our superior greatness. He is all For rural comfort and domestic ease, But our impulsive days are all for moving: Sometimes with some ulterior end, but still For moving, moving, always. There is nothing Common between us in our points of judgment. He takes his stand upon tranquillity, We ours upon excitement. There we place The being, end, and aim of mortal life, The many are with us: some few, perhaps, With him. We put the question to the vote By universal suffrage. Aid us, Circe I On tajismanic wings youi spells can waft The question and reply* Are we not wiser, Happier, and better, than the men of old, Of Homer's days, of Athens, and of Rome? VOICES WITHOUT Ay. No. Ay, ay. No. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, We are the wisest race the earth has known, The most advanced in all the arts of life, In science and in morals. ...nemo meracius accipit: hoc memorare omisit. This sense is implied, not expressed. Pope missed it in his otherwise beautiful translation. Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood, The source of evil one, and one of good; From thence the cup of mortal man he fills, Blessings to these, to those distributes ills, To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed To taste the bad, unmixed, is curst indeed; Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven, He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven. --Pope. SPIRIT-RAPPER The ays have it. What is that wondrous sound, that seems like thunder Mixed with gigantic laughter? CIRCE It is Jupiter, Who laughs at your presumption; half in anger, And half in mockery. Now, my worthy masters, You must in turn experience in yourselves The mighty magic thus far tried on others. The table turned slowly, and by degrees went on spinning with accelerated speed. The legs assumed motion, and it danced off the stage. The arms of the chairs put forth hands, and pinched the spirit-rappers, who sprang up and ran off, pursued by their chairs. This piece of mechanical pantomime was a triumph of Lord Curryfin's art, and afforded him ample satisfaction for the failure of his resonant vases. CIRCE Now, Gryllus, we may seek our ancient home In my enchanted isle.