She sows with never-ending gesture all
The path before his feet, cursing the way
She drags him on with growth of flouting crops,
Urchin thistles, and rank flourishing nettles. 
But the other has a wear of woven gleam,
And with soft hand beseeches him his face
Away from the hardships of his hurt stung feet,
That with his eyes he may desire her looks: 
And she is Beauty of Woman, man’s dear blessing. 
And if you would be wise, be well afraid
To think you have more office than to be
A sweet delicious while amid man’s hours
Of worldly labour:  we are too precious, so. 
Yet see you not how this that Spirit hath done
Is also dangerous?—­For there are mightier needs! 
There’s no content for Spirit in the world
Till he has striven out of bounded fate,
And sent an infinite desire forth
Into the whole eternity of things. 
Yea, spirit ails with loathing secretly
The irremediable force of being;
Unless, with free expatiate desire,
He shape into the endless burning flux
Of starry world blindly adventuring
Some steady righteous destiny for Spirit: 
Even as dreaming brain fashions the fume
Of life asleep to marshall’d imagery. 
But we are in the way of this:  and man,
The more he needs to announce upon the world,
Over him going like a storming air,
That fashioning word which utters the divine
Imagination working in him like anger;
The more he finds his virtue caught and clogged
In the fierce luxury he hath made of woman. 
Thence are we sin, thence deliciously
Persuading man refuse his highest ardour. 
Too easily kindled was the ecstasy
Of fleshly passion, with a joyous flame
Too readily answering the Spirit’s fire! 
He burns with us alone, so fragrantly
His noblest vigour swoons delighted.  Yea,
Women, I tell you, not far now is man
From hating us, so passionate the joy
Of loving us, so mightily drawing down
Into the service of his pleasure here
All forces of his being.  The pleasure soon
Becomes a shame, scarce to be spoken aloud;
And in best minds, either detested doting
Man’s joy in woman’s beauty will become;
Or a strict binding fire, holding him down
In lust of beauty where no beauty is.

     [The KING’S MESSENGER comes in.

Messenger. 
To Vashti, to the Queen of the world, to her
In whom the striving beauty of the world
Hath made perfection, from the King I come. 
And the King bids me say, Rise from thy feast;
For thou must be to-night thyself a feast: 
The vision of thy loveliness must now
Feed with astonishment my vassals’ hearts. 
Therefore thou art to come.

Vashti. 
     And tell the King
I will not come.

Messenger. 
     What was there in my words
Thou dost not understand?—­I say, the King
Would show thy beauty to his under-kings,
That with this also they may be amazed
And utterly fear his fortune.