[Exeunt.

    Gods! what a crowd!  How, when shall we get past
    This nuisance, these unending ant-like swarms? 
    Yet, Ptolemy, we owe thee thanks for much
    Since heaven received thy sire!  No miscreant now
    Creeps Thug-like up, to maul the passer-by. 
    What games men played erewhile—­men shaped in crime,
    Birds of a feather, rascals every one! 
    —­We’re done for, Gorgo darling—­here they are,
    The Royal horse!  Sweet sir, don’t trample me! 
    That bay—­the savage!—­reared up straight on end! 
    Fly, Eunoae, can’t you?  Doggedly she stands. 
    He’ll be his rider’s death!—­How glad I am
    My babe’s at home.

    GORGO. 
                    Praxinoae, never mind! 
    See, we’re before them now, and they’re in line.

    PRAXINOAe. 
    There, I’m myself.  But from a child I feared
    Horses, and slimy snakes.  But haste we on: 
    A surging multitude is close behind.

    GORGO [to Old Lady]. 
    From the palace, mother?

    OLD LADY. 
                        Ay, child.

    GORGO. 
                              Is it fair
    Of access?

    OLD LADY. 
                Trying brought the Greeks to Troy. 
    Young ladies, they must try who would succeed.

    GORGO. 
    The crone hath said her oracle and gone. 
    Women know all—­how Adam married Eve. 
    —­Praxinoae, look what crowds are round the door!

    PRAXINOAe. 
    Fearful!  Your hand, please, Gorgo.  Eunoae, you
    Hold Eutychis—­hold tight or you’ll be lost. 
    We’ll enter in a body—­hold us fast! 
    Oh dear, my muslin dress is torn in two,
    Gorgo, already!  Pray, good gentleman,
    (And happiness be yours) respect my robe!

    STRANGER. 
    I could not if I would—­nathless I will.

    PRAXINOAe. 
    They come in hundreds, and they push like swine.

    STRANGER. 
    Lady, take courage:  it is all well now.

    PRAXINOAe. 
    And now and ever be it well with thee,
    Sweet man, for shielding us!  An honest soul
    And kindly.  Oh! they’re smothering Eunoae: 
    Push, coward!  That’s right!  ‘All in,’ the bridegroom said
    And locked the door upon himself and bride.

    GORGO. 
    Praxinoae, look!  Note well this broidery first. 
    How exquisitely fine—­too good for earth! 
    Empress Athene, what strange sempstress wrought
    Such work?  What painter painted, realized
    Such pictures?  Just like life they stand or move,
    Facts and not fancies!  What a thing is man! 
    How bright, how lifelike on his silvern couch
    Lies, with youth’s bloom scarce shadowing his cheek,
    That dear Adonis, lovely e’en in death!

    A STRANGER. 
    Bad luck t’you, cease your senseless pigeon’s prate! 
    Their brogue is killing—­every word a drawl!