moon shines more passionately there. Is it true?

PHAON: Yes, yes. But kiss me, Lydia! Take this jewel--my last. Be
mine to-night, no other's! We'll prate of Venice another time.

LYDIA: Another time we'll prate of kisses. I'll not have the jewel.

PHAON: Not have it! Now you're turning nun! a soft and virgin, silly
nun! With a gray gown to hide these shoulders that--shall I whisper
it?

LYDIA: Devil! they're not! A nice lover called them round and
fair last night. And I've been sick! And--I--cruel! cruel! cruel!
(_Revellers are heard returning._) There, they're coming.

PHAON: Never mind, my girl. But you mustn't scorn a man's blood when
it's afire.

_Re-enter Revellers singing_

Bacchus, hey! was a god, hei-yo! etc.
(_After which all go, except ZOE and BASIL._

ZOE: O! O! O! but 'tis brave! Wine, Basil! Wine, my knight, my
Bacchus! Ho! ho! my god! you wheeze like a cross-bow. Is it years,
my wooer, years?--Ah! (_She sighs._)

BASIL: Sighs--sighs! Now look for showers.

ZOE: Basil--you were my first lover--except the duke Charles. Ah,
did you see how that Helena looked when they gave her the duke's
command? I was like that once. (_HAEMON starts forward._)

BASIL: Fiends, nymphs and saints! it's come! tears in your eyes!
Zoe, stop it. Would you have mine leak and drive me to a monastery
for shelter!

ZOE (_sings sadly and absently_):

She lay by the river, dead,
A broken reed in her hand
A nymph whom an idle god had wed
And led from her maidenland.

BASIL: O, had I been born a heathen!

ZOE: He told me, Basil, I should live, a great lady, at his castle.
And they should kiss my hand and courtesy to me. He meant but
jest--I feared.--I feared! But--I loved him!

BASIL: Now, my damsel--!

ZOE (_sings_):

The god was the great god Jove,
Two notes would the bent reed blow,
The one was sorrow, the other love
Enwove with a woman's woe.

BASIL: Songs and snakes! Give me instead a Dominican's funeral!
I'd as lief crawl bare-kneed to Rome and mouth the Pope's heel.
O blessed Turks with their remorseless harems!--Zoe!

ZOE (_sings_):

She lay by the river dead;
And he at feasting forgot.
The gods, shall they be disquieted
By dread of a mortal's lot?

(_She wipes her eyes, trembles, looks at him and laughs
hysterically._)

Bacchus! my Bacchus! with