SIMON. 
                He who knows himself
Knows all things in himself.  I have charmed thee,
Thou beautiful asp:  yet am I no magician,
I am the Power of God, and the Beauty of God! 
I am the Paraclete, the Comforter!

HELEN. 
Illusions!  Thou deceiver, self-deceived! 
Thou dost usurp the titles of another;
Thou art not what thou sayest.

SIMON. 
                           Am I not? 
Then feel my power.

HELEN. 
Would I had ne’er left Tyre!

He looks at her, and she sinks into a deep sleep.

SIMON. 
Go, see it in thy dreams, fair unbeliever! 
And leave me unto mine, if they be dreams,
That take such shapes before me, that I see them;
These effable and ineffable impressions
Of the mysterious world, that come to me
From the elements of Fire and Earth and Water,
And the all-nourishing Ether!  It is written,
Look not on Nature, for her name is fatal! 
Yet there are Principles, that make apparent
The images of unapparent things,
And the impression of vague characters
And visions most divine appear in ether. 
So speak the Oracles; then wherefore fatal? 
I take this orange-bough, with its five leaves,
Each equidistant on the upright stem;
And I project them on a plane below,
In the circumference of a circle drawn
About a centre where the stem is planted,
And each still equidistant from the other,
As if a thread of gossamer were drawn
Down from each leaf, and fastened with a pin. 
Now if from these five points a line be traced
To each alternate point, we shall obtain
The Pentagram, or Solomon’s Pentangle,
A charm against all witchcraft, and a sign,
Which on the banner of Antiochus
Drove back the fierce barbarians of the North,
Demons esteemed, and gave the Syrian King
The sacred name of Soter, or of Savior. 
Thus Nature works mysteriously with man;
And from the Eternal One, as from a centre,
All things proceed, in fire, air, earth, and water,
And all are subject to one law, which, broken
Even in a single point, is broken in all;
Demons rush in, and chaos comes again. 
By this will I compel the stubborn spirits,
That guard the treasures, hid in caverns deep
On Gerizim, by Uzzi the High-Priest,
The ark and holy vessels, to reveal
Their secret unto me, and to restore
These precious things to the Samaritans. 
A mist is rising from the plain below me,
And as I look, the vapors shape themselves
Into strange figures, as if unawares
My lips had breathed the Tetragrammaton,
And from their graves, o’er all the battlefields
Of Armageddon, the long-buried captains
Had started, with their thousands, and ten thousands,
And rushed together to renew their wars,
Powerless, and weaponless, and without a sound! 
Wake, Helen, from thy sleep!  The air grows cold;
Let us go down.