_Sar._ (_speaking to some of his attendants_). Let the pavilion[6] over the Euphrates Be garlanded, and lit, and furnished forth For an especial banquet; at the hour Of midnight we will sup there: see nought wanting, And bid the galley be prepared. There is A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river: We will embark anon. Fair Nymphs, who deign To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, When we shall gather like the stars above us, 10 And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs; Till then, let each be mistress of her time, And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha,[7] choose; Wilt thou along with them or me? _Myr._ My Lord-- _Sar._ My Lord!--my Life! why answerest thou so coldly? It is the curse of kings to be so answered. Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine--say, wouldst thou Accompany our guests, or charm away The moments from me? _Myr._ The King's choice is mine. _Sar._ I pray thee say not so: my chiefest joy 20 Is to contribute to thine every wish. I do not dare to breathe my own desire, Lest it should clash with thine; for thou art still Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. _Myr._ I would remain: I have no happiness Save in beholding thine; yet-- _Sar._ Yet! what YET? Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. _Myr._ I think the present is the wonted hour Of council; it were better I retire. 30 _Sal._ (_comes forward and says_) The Ionian slave says well: let her retire. _Sar._ Who answers? How now, brother? _Sal._ The _Queen's_ brother, And your most faithful vassal, royal Lord. _Sar._ (_addressing his train_). As I have said, let all dispose their hours Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. [_The court retiring_. (_To_ MYRRHA,[c] _who is going_.) Myrrha! I thought _thou_ wouldst remain. _Myr._ Great King, Thou didst not say so. _Sar._ But _thou_ looked'st it: I know each glance of those Ionic eyes,[d] Which said thou wouldst not leave me. _Myr._ Sire! your brother---- _Sal._ His _Consort's_ brother, minion of Ionia! 40 How darest _thou_ name _me_ and not blush? _Sar._ Not blush! Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimson Like to the dying day on Caucasus, Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, And then reproach her with thine own cold blindness, Which will not see it. What! in tears, my Myrrha?