Wherewith will ye buy it, ye rich who behold me? 
  Draw out from your coffers your rest and your laughter,
  And the fair gilded hope of the dawn coming after! 
Nay this I sell not,—­though ye bought me and sold me,—­
  For your house stored with such things from threshold to rafter. 
  —­Pass by me, I hearken, and think of you not!_

Enter before the curtain LOVE clad as a maker of Pictured Cloths.

LOVE

That double life my faithful king has led
My hand has untwined, and old days are dead
As in the moon the sails run up the mast. 
Yea, let this present mingle with the past,
And when ye see him next think a long tide
Of days are gone by; for the world is wide,
And if at last these hands, these lips shall meet,
What matter thorny ways and weary feet?

A faithful king, and now grown wise in love: 
Yet from of old in many ways I move
The hearts that shall be mine:  him by the hand
Have I led forth, and shown his eyes the land
Where dwells his love, and shown him what she is: 
He has beheld the lips that he shall kiss,
The eyes his eyes shall soften, and the cheek
His voice shall change, the limbs he maketh weak: 
—­All this he hath as in a picture wrought—­
But lo you, ’tis the seeker and the sought: 
For her no marvels of the night I make,
Nor keep my dream-smiths’ drowsy heads awake;
Only about her have I shed a glory
Whereby she waiteth trembling for a story
That she shall play in,—­and ’tis not begun: 
Therefore from rising sun to setting sun
There flit before her half-formed images
Of what I am, and in all things she sees
Something of mine:  so single is her heart
Filled with the worship of one set apart
To be my priestess through all joy and sorrow;
So sad and sweet she waits the certain morrow. 
—­And yet sometimes, although her heart be strong,
You may well think I tarry over-long: 
The lonely sweetness of desire grows pain,
The reverent life of longing void and vain: 
Then are my dream-smiths mindful of my lore: 
They weave a web of sighs and weeping sore,
Of languor, and of very helplessness,
Of restless wandering, lonely dumb distress,
Till like a live thing there she stands and goes,
Gazing at Pharamond through all her woes. 
Then forth they fly, and spread the picture out
Before his eyes, and how then may he doubt
She knows his life, his deeds, and his desire? 
How shall he tremble lest her heart should tire? 
—­It is not so; his danger and his war,
His days of triumph, and his years of care,
She knows them not—­yet shall she know some day
The love that in his lonely longing lay.