For though we may not ride 1430 Thy tall sea-horses nor play In the rainbow-tinted spray, Nor dive down under the tide To the secret caves of the main, Among thy laughing train; Yet had we served thee well as they, Had we thy secret shared: Nor ever had lost from garden and hall Pyrrha the golden-haired, Pyrrha beloved of all. 1440 _Th._ (_to Deid._). Dost thou say nought? _Deid._ Alas, alas! my Pyrrha. _Th._ Art thou lamenting still to have lost thy maid? _Deid._ I need no tongue to cry my shame; and yet Thy mockery doth not grieve me like my loss. _Th._ I came not here to mock thee, and forbid Thy grief, that doth dishonour to my son. _Deid._ Nay, nay, that word is mine: speak it no more. _Th._ Weepest thou at comfort? Is deceit so dear To mortals, that to know good cannot match The joy of a delusion whatsoe’er? 1450 _Deid._ What joy was mine shame must forbid to tell. _Th._ Gods count it shame to be deceived: but men Are shamed not by delusion of the gods. _Deid._ Then ye know nothing or do not respect. _Th._ Why what is this thou makest? the more ye have loved The more have ye delighted, and the joy I never grudged thee; tho’ there was not one In all my company of sea-born nymphs, Who did not daily pray me, with white arms Raised in the blue, to let her guard my son. 1460 And for his birthright he might well have taken The service of their sportive train, and lived On some fair desert isle away from men Like a young god in worship and gay love. But since he is mortal, for his mortal mate I chose out thee; to whom now were he lost, I would not blame thy well-deservèd tears: But lo, I am come to give thee joy, to call Thee daughter, and prepare thee for the sight Of such a lover, as no lady yet 1470 Hath sat to await in chamber or in bower On any wallèd hill or isle of Greece; Nor yet in Asian cities, whose dark queens Look from the latticed casements over seas Of hanging gardens; nor doth all the world Hold a memorial; not where Ægypt mirrors The great smile of her kings and sunsmit fanes In timeless silence: none hath been like him; And all the giant stones, which men have piled Upon the illustrious dead, shall crumble and join The desert dust, ere his high dirging Muse 1481 Be dispossessèd of the throne of song. Await him here. While I thy willing maids Will lead apart, that they may learn what share To take in thy rejoicing. Follow me!