_Ach._ I wish I had had Apollo for my sire; Or that old Cheiron, when he taught me arms, Hunting the beasts on bushy Pelion, Had led and trained me rather, as well he knew, In that fair park of fancy and delight, Where but the Graces and the Muses come. For he could sing: and oft took down at eve 410 From the high pillar of his rocky cave The lyre or pipe, and whiled the darksome hours. Which would I had learned, to touch the stops and strings, Nor only harked thereto: for nought he sang, Whether of gods or men, of peace or war, Had any theme of sweetness to compare With my new world, here, where I am king, and rule The sweetest thing in nature. Had I skill To give translation to my joy, I think I could make music that should charm the world. O Deidamia, thou Queen of my heart, 421 I would enchant thee and thine isle. Alas! How wilt thou learn thou art mine? How can I tell And with the word not lose thee? Now this suitor Threats my betrayal... He comes. I’ll watch. Yet not With jealous eyes, but heedful of my fate. [_Hides in bushes._ _Enter Lycomedes and Abas._ _LYCOMEDES._ ’Tis folly and impertinence. I say it With due respect unto the prince, thy master, Who am as much his elder as the king His father is. He ne’er would so have wronged me,— The mild and good Laertes.—In this isle 431 Think’st thou ’twere possible a man should hide, And I not know it? _ABAS._ My Lord Ulysses, sire, Bade me assure your majesty he came More with the purpose to acquit your honour,— Which suffers greatly in the common tongue,— Than with a hope to find what he pretends He comes to seek. _Lyc._ Why should he come at all? _Ab._ Taking your invitation in the sense That I have spoken... _Lyc._ Thinks he, if I chose 440 To hide the man in Scyros, that a stranger From Ithaca could find him? _Ab._ Nay... _Lyc._ It follows Your search can never quit my honesty, Where I am held accomplice; but no less Must put a slight upon my wits, implying Me the deceived. _Ab._ Your invitation, sire, Covers that charge. _Lyc._ My invitation, sir, Was but my seal of full denial, a challenge For honour’s eye, not to be taken up. Your master hath slipped in manners: yet fear not But I will meet and treat him as his birth 451 And name require. Speak we no more of this. What think’st thou of our isle? _Ab._ The famed Ægean Hath not a finer jewel on her breast.