And now at bidding of the courier flame, The herald of good news, A rumour swift spreads through the city streets, 460 But who knows clearly whether it be true, Or whether God has mingled lies with it? Who is so childish or so reft of sense, As with his heart a-glow At that fresh uttered message of the flame, Then to wax sad at changing rumour's sound? It suits the mood that sways a woman's mind To pour thanksgiving ere the truth is seen: Quickly, with rapid steps, too credulous, The limit which a woman sets to trust Advances evermore;[304] And with swift doom of death 470 A rumour spread by woman perishes. [_As the Chorus ends, a Herald is seen approaching, his head wreathed with olive_[305] Soon we shall know the sequence of the torches Light-giving, and of all the beacon-fires, If they be true; or if, as 'twere a dream, This sweet light coming hath beguiled our minds. I see a herald coming from the shore, With olive boughs o'ershadowed, and the dust,[306] Dry sister-twin of mire,[307] announces this, That neither without voice, nor kindling blaze Of wood upon the mountains, he will signal 480 With smoke from fire, but either he will come, With clear speech bidding us rejoice, or else ... [_pauses_ The word opposed to this I much mislike. Nay, may good issue good beginnings crown! Who for our city utters other prayers, May he himself his soul's great error reap!