CHARICLEA.
No hand me the lyre:--no matter. You will hear the song to
disadvantage. But if it were sung as I have heard it sung:--if
this were a beautiful morning in spring, and if we were standing
on a woody promontory, with the sea, and the white sails, and the
blue Cyclades beneath us,--and the portico of a temple peeping
through the trees on a huge peak above our heads,--and thousands
of people, with myrtles in their hands, thronging up the winding
path, their gay dresses and garlands disappearing and emerging by
turns as they passed round the angles of the rock,--then perhaps-
-

ALCIBIADES.
Now, by Venus herself, sweet lady, where you are we shall lack
neither sun, nor flowers, nor spring, nor temple, nor goddess.

CHARICLEA. (Sings.)
Let this sunny hour be given,
Venus, unto love and mirth:
Smiles like thine are in the heaven;
Bloom like thine is on the earth;
And the tinkling of the fountains,
And the murmurs of the sea,
And the echoes from the mountains,
Speak of youth, and hope, and thee.

By whate'er of soft expression
Thou hast taught to lovers' eyes,
Faint denial, slow confession,
Glowing cheeks and stifled sighs;