My fancy like a wayward messenger Despatched to gather roses, on its wings Bearing their scent, flies empty-handed home. Bacchus. What picture, Ariadne? Ariadne. That we saw In Athens, when we last alighted there. Do you remember how it made us smile Until we felt that love had painted it; And then we found it true and beautiful? Bacchus. Yes: and the poet. Ariadne. Oh! some mortals still Love us, and deem us worthy of a song. But for the subject of their art, I vow They needs must know it better than myself Who am the heroine: their feigning hangs A veil before my fancy.--Come away: Back where the water gurgles through the fern, Dewing the feathery fronds, and hyacinths Spread like a purple smoke far up the bank. [Steps into the chariot. Enter Harlequin and Columbine. Scaramouch rises. Harlequin. Bacchus! [Is running out. Bacchus. Stay. Harlequin. Pardon, great Bacchus! Scaramouch. Pardon! Bacchus. What men are you, infesters of this isle? Scaramouch. From England come we, Bacchus--England. Ha! Know you not England, land of shams and shows? Bacchus. Is patriotism dead in England, then, That travellers thus traduce their native land? What make you here? Scaramouch. We came to hire you, sir: I am a showman: but we took instead Silenus here, who, pardon me, agrees More closely with the popular idea Of what you're like than you yourself do. Now, What must I do? I most distinctly see That you would be a more attractive show; But I have made a contract with Silenus. Then, here's the Ariadne I suppose, And I have just returned from shipping one! What's to be done? Stalactites, storms, and strums, Will you come, too? Name your own price: look here: You'll be yourself; Silenus himself, too; And Ariadne will be Ariadne. For her I've shipped--why, ladies have their starts, Their turns, their maggots, and their fantasies, Their hypochondrias, their aches, their pains, Their dreams by day and night, their whims, their nothings; And should her ladyship lie in the clutch, The grip, the throes, or, to be more precise, The mood, or mode, or manner of a qualm, The madam I have shipped could take her place, And be her under-study as it were. Yea, by the very doom of destiny, I have a substitute for you, my lord-- Endymion, they call him--in the ship! So, Bacchus, if it happened, as it might-- And who has better reason?--that you sipped, Or tippled, or indulged, or----Heaven forgive me! [Falls on his knees. Take off your eyes: they scorch me through and through! Bacchus [to Harlequin]. You, with the wooden sword, I know your trade: You shall do feats with that untempered blade. [To Ariadne.] Should you not like to see these substitutes? Ariadne. Rarely. Bacchus [to Harlequin]. Strike, knave; and deeper than the roots Of aged oaks, as deep as is the sea,