Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Greek Kalends
Was't worth the journey'forth? Nay, cram the fire With these same idle papers. Hesta. They will burn out And with their ashes leave it choked and dead. Iphigenia. So oft doth merry sport remembered. Our torches are to burn. We'll light them, girls, And carry them bravely, too, above our heads. I am aweary, ambling from the town. Hebe. But what of our young men? Iphigenia. This fashion-monger will not come. I will to sleep. Come, fan me, I will drowse Under broad sycamore or cedar boughs, Till to his western bed the sun hath stooped There will I pout and frown, for I am duped. Heee. Mistress, lie down under yon laden tree Whose blossoms are, unto the skipper bee, Rich orient islands of the Indian main, Voyaged unto again and yet again Let humming vans, like feathers in the wind, Tickle thy fancy to a better mind. Iphigenia. No, I would bathe. Is there no hidden lake Near here, to swim, and let the circles break And talk along the green and slippery marge, Oaring myself most like a stately barge.
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