Chorus.

  What storm is this that tightens all our sail?

  Althaea.

  Love, a thwart sea-wind full of rain and foam.

  Chorus.

  Whence blown, and born under what stormier star?

  Althaea.

  Southward across Euenus from the sea.

  Chorus.

  Thy speech turns toward Arcadia like blown wind.

  Althaea.

  Sharp as the north sets when the snows are out.

  Chorus.

  Nay, for this maiden hath no touch of love.

  Althaea.

  I would she had sought in some cold gulf of sea
  Love, or in dens where strange beasts lurk, or fire,
  Or snows on the extreme hills, or iron land
  Where no spring is; I would she had sought therein
  And found, or ever love had found her here.

  Chorus.

  She is holier than all holy days or things,
  The sprinkled water or fume of perfect fire;
  Chaste, dedicated to pure prayers, and filled
  With higher thoughts than heaven; a maiden clean,
  Pure iron, fashioned for a sword, and man
  She loves not; what should one such do with love?

  Althaea.

  Look you, I speak not as one light of wit,
  But as a queen speaks, being heart-vexed; for oft
  I hear my brothers wrangling in mid hall,
  And am not moved; and my son chiding them,
  And these things nowise move me, but I know
  Foolish and wise men must be to the end,
  And feed myself with patience; but this most,
  This moves me, that for wise men as for fools
  Love is one thing, an evil thing, and turns
  Choice words and wisdom into fire and air. 
  And in the end shall no joy come, but grief,
  Sharp words and soul’s division and fresh tears
  Flower-wise upon the old root of tears brought forth,
  Fruit-wise upon the old flower of tears sprung up,
  Pitiful sighs, and much regrafted pain. 
  These things are in my presage, and myself
  Am part of them and know not; but in dreams
  The gods are heavy on me, and all the fates
  Shed fire across my eyelids mixed with night,
  And burn me blind, and disilluminate
  My sense of seeing, and my perspicuous soul
  Darken with vision; seeing I see not, hear
  And hearing am not holpen, but mine eyes
  Stain many tender broideries in the bed
  Drawn up about my face that I may weep
  And the king wake not; and my brows and lips
  Tremble and sob in sleeping, like swift flames
  That tremble, or water when it sobs with heat
  Kindled from under; and my tears fill my breast
  And speck the fair dyed pillows round the king
  With barren showers and salter than the sea,
  Such dreams divide me dreaming; for long since
  I dreamed that out of this my womb had sprung
  Fire and a firebrand; this was ere my son,
  Meleager, a goodly flower in fields of