SERVANT. My Lord, our common clay Endureth none too well the quiet splendor Of hours like these. We are but little used To aught but dragging through our daily round Of littleness. And on such high occasions We feel the quiet opening of a portal From which an unfamiliar, icy breath Our spirit chills, and warns us of the grave. As in a glass we then behold our own Forgotten likeness come into our vision, And easier 'twere to weep than to be merry. MERCHANT. She tasted not a morsel that thou placed Before her. SERVANT. Lord, her modest maidenhood Was like a noose about her throat; but yet She ate some of the fruit. MERCHANT. Yes, one small seed, I noticed that, 'twas a pomegranate seed. SERVANT. Then too she suddenly bethought herself That wine, a blood-red flame in sparkling crystal, Before her stood, and raised the splendid goblet And drank as with a sudden firm resolve The half of it, so that the color flooded Her cheeks, and deep she sighed as with relief. MERCHANT. Methinks that was no happy resolution. So acts the man who would deceive himself, And veils his glance, because the road affrights him. SERVAMT. Vain torments these: this is but women's way. MERCHANT.(looks about the room, smiles). A mirror, too, I see thou hast provided. SERVAMT. Thine own command, the mirror is thy mother's, Brought hither from her chamber with the rest. And thou thyself didst bid me, just this one ... MERCHANT. What, did I so? It was a moment, then, When I was shrewder than I am just now. Yes, yes, a youthful bride must have a mirror. SERVANT. Now I will go to fetch your mother's goblet And bring the cooling evening drink.