By the pleasure and the pain,
By the follies and the wiles,
Pouting fondness, sweet disdain,
Happy tears and mournful smiles;

Come with music floating o'er thee;
Come with violets springing round:
Let the Graces dance before thee,
All their golden zones unbound;
Now in sport their faces hiding,
Now, with slender fingers fair,
From their laughing eyes dividing
The long curls of rose-crowned hair.

ALCIBIADES.
Sweetly sung; but mournfully, Chariclea; for which I would chide
you, but that I am sad myself. More wine there. I wish to all
the gods that I had fairly sailed from Athens.

CHARICLEA.
And from me, Alcibiades?

ALCIBIADES.
Yes, from you, dear lady. The days which immediately precede
separation are the most melancholy of our lives.

CHARICLEA.
Except those which immediately follow it.

ALCIBIADES.