_Th._ Kiss me, my son. By the gods’ life, I love thee: My grief is to deny thee. But there’s need 760 Of counsel, for the day is critical And glides apace. And first if they should find thee, Then ’tis thy fate to go: I cannot stay thee. And since to bear thee hence were sure betrayal, I urge thee to be true to thy disguise. And better to escape thy foes, learn now Whom most to dread. Of all the Argives shun Ulysses; come not near him in the halls; And should he speak to thee, answer no word. Him thou wilt know by his preëminence: 770 In person he is beardless yet, and smooth Of face and tongue, alluring, gentle in voice But sturdy of body, and ’neath his helm his locks O’er a wide brow and restless eye curl forth In ruddy brown; nor less for his attire Notable is he, wearing the best of all, His linen broidered, and broad jewels to hold A robe of gray and purple. _Ach._ He shall not spy me. But if by any warning from the gods He know and call to me, how then to escape 780 The shame of this Ionian skirt? _Th._ That chance I can provide for, and shall give thee now A magic garment fitting to thy body, Which worn beneath thy robe will seem as weft Of linen thread, but if it meet the light ’Twill be a gilded armour, and serve well In proof as show. Come, I will set it on thee. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Deidamia and Chorus._ _Deid._ The ground is clear, we have deceived them mightily, Running around. _Ch._ Where is our queen? (_2_) Not here. _Deid._ I’ll call her. Pyrrha!—Call all together. _Ch._ Pyrrha! _Deid._ She will come presently.—Did ye not mark How resonant this glade is? that our voices 792 Neither return nor fly, but stay about us? It is the trunks of the trees that cage the sound; As in an open temple, where the pillars Enrich the music. In my father’s hall The echo of each note burdens the next. ’Twould be well done to cut a theatre Deep in some wooded dale. Till Pyrrha come, Alexia, sing thou here. _Ch._ What shall I sing? 800 _Deid._ There is a Lydian chant I call to mind In honour of music-makers: it beginneth With praise of the soft spring, and heavenly love— ’Twill suit our mood, if thou remember it. _Chorus._