Or mote in the sunbeam is to that sun’s self,
And we are like dead leaves in autumn’s whirl
Of wind upon it.
Crassus.
Mystify me, girl!
It is the right of an elf.
Surely your flickering fire
Will draw me to some mire!
Aucta.
Here the stream dips its mouth into the wood.
So does youth’s calm and chaste beatitude
Touch the black mouth of Love, the ancient whore.
Crassus.
Girl! what a scorpion leaping from your lips!
Auta.
My mouth stings as no scorpion ever stang.
In this round impudent smiling face of mine
There is a poison fiercer than all wines
And from these eyes more subtle sorrows pour
Than you can dream. These teeth have been at grips
With gods; I have sung what no girl ever sang.
‘These ears have heard
An insufferable word!
Crassus,
‘What do you mean?