_Deid._ Well, thou must take my gift. _Ach._ Then must I give thee somewhat in return. _Deid._ But ’tis my will to-day to give to all. _Ach._ Then let me take my choice, some smaller thing. 1000 _Deid._ Come then ere all is ransacked. _Ach._ (_aside_). I scarce escaped The uncovering of my magic coat.—[_They go to Ulysses._ _Ul._ Come buy, Needles for your broideries rare, Dainty bodkins silver-hafted. Pins to fix your plaited hair, Ivory-headed and golden-shafted. _Ach._ What hast thou in thy pack for me, old man? _Ul._ There’s nought but trifles left me, lady, now, As dice and dolls; the very dregs of the box. _Deid._ Athenian owls. And who’s this red-baked lady Clothed in a net? _Ul._ Princess, ’tis Britomartis, 1011 The Cretan goddess worshipped at Ægina. _Deid._ This little serpent too? _Ul._ Nothing to thee: But the Erechtheidæ use to fasten such About their children’s necks. Nay, not a babe Is born but they must don him one of these, Or ever he be swaddled or have suck. _Deid._ This blinking pygmy here, with a man’s body And a dog’s head, squatting upon a button... What’s he? _Ul._ ’Tis an Egyptian charm, to ban 1020 The evil spirits bred of Nilus’ slime. _Deid._ And this? _Ul._ That. See, ’tis a Medusa, lady, Cut in an oyster-shell, with flaming snakes. _Deid._ These are all nothings. Thou must have the brooch. See, now ’tis thine; thou hast it. (_Pins it upon Achilles’ robe._) (_To Ul._) What is its price? (_To Ach._) Nay, be content. _Ul._ To thee I’ll sell it, lady, For a tenfold weight of gold. _Ach._ Oh! ’tis too much. Spend not such store on me. And for the ruby, ’Tis dark and small. _Ul._ The purple is its merit: Were it three times the size and half the tint, 1030 ’Twere of slight cost. _Ach._ So might I like it better. And that—what’s that, which thou dost put aside? Is that a toy? _Ul._ Nay, lady; that is no toy. ’Tis a sharp sword. But I will show it thee For its strange quality: the which methinks Might pass for magic, were’t not that an Arian, Late come to Sardis, knows the art to make it. Tho’ wrought of iron, look ye, ’tis blue as flint, And if I bend it, it springs back like a bow: ’Tis sharper too than flint; but the edge is straight, And will not chip. Nay, touch it not; have care! _Ach._ Pray, let me see it, and take it in my hand. [_Takes it and comes to front._ _Ul._ (_aside_). This should be he.