Had you done that for livelong years, as I, You’d be in just the case that touches me, More so if every night you got to dreaming You had the old-time post still in your care. I make machine-like grasp with my right hand Toward my left hand’s pulse-tick, counting, counting, And counting off to sixty ere the thought Comes over me I am a clock no more. MOSES. Then once for ever--mark ye that with us You’re not to take the time. We have for that The sand and the sun-dial. For yourself, You’ll take the time like all of us--for action. Sheer lazy-lumpishness! ART. Nay, let me swear it! MOSES. Peace, peace! You’ve never counted at your meals. What’s more, oath-swearing’s not the mode with us, And (_aside_) if the King had not been half a heathen We’d not be blessed with this outlandish slave. Why, here the music-makers come! Look sharp! [_Goes out to the others._ JEHU. Say, is it really true, this tale of you They tell? ART. Why what’s to stop it being true? And must I then a hundred times aver it? At the great satrap’s court I was a clock, Well-off at that, much better than with you. At nights I had a spell, then ’twas my brother, And in the day too when I went to eat. And I must say I do not thank your King That with the other prisoners of war He dragged me here. True, toward the end my post Was somewhat hard. They marched me to the field And what with arrows right and left a-flying And men a-falling, you will botch your count More easily of course than in a hall Where folks are come together for the dancing. I screwed my eyes up tight, for I’m no hero Such as my father was. He found an arrow Standing at post--he was a clock like us, Me and my brother, every one a-clocking-- Even then he called the hour and died. What say ye? That was a man! A trifle over-kind That trick of Fate to drive at him the arrow! JEHU. And have you then no sand among your people That you must do this? ART. We? Have _we_ no sand? Enough to blot and bury all Judaea! It’s just because the satrap there with us Will have things better done than others do them. Why, know you not a man’s pulse tallies truer, If he be sound and have no fevered blood, Than ever sand of yours runs through its pipes? And have your dials any jot of use If it should please the sun to stop his shining? (_Counts_). One! Two! MOSES (_coming back_). Off! Off! The guests are coming now! ART.