THYRSIS:  [Searching.] I find no jewels . . . but I wonder what
The root of this black weed would do to a man
If he should taste it. ...  I have seen a sheep die,
With half the stalk still drooling from its mouth. 
’Twould be a speedy remedy, I should think,
For a festered pride and a feverish ambition. 
It has a curious root.  I think I’ll hack it
In little pieces. . . .  First I’ll get me a drink;
And then I’ll hack that root in little pieces
As small as dust, and see what the color is
Inside. [Goes to bowl on floor.]

The pool is very clear.  I see
A shepherd standing on the brink, with a red cloak
About him, and a black weed in his hand. . . . 
’Tis I. [Kneels and drinks.]

CORYDON:  [Coming to wall.] Hello, what are you doing, Thyrsis?

THYRSIS:  Digging for gold.

CORYDON:  I’ll give you all the gold
You want, if you’ll give me a bowl of water. 
If you don’t want too much, that is to say.

THYRSIS:  Ho, so you’ve changed your mind?—­It’s different,
Isn’t it, when you want a drink yourself?

CORYDON:  Of course it is.

THYRSIS:  Well, let me see ... a bowl
Of water,—­come back in an hour, Corydon. 
I’m busy now.

CORYDON:  Oh, Thyrsis, give me a bowl
Of water!—­and I’ll fill the bowl with jewels,
And bring it back!

THYRSIS:  Be off, I’m busy now.

[He catches sight of the weed, picks it up and looks at it, unseen by CORYDON.]

Wait!—­Pick me out the finest stones you have . . . 
I’ll bring you a drink of water presently.

CORYDON:  [Goes back and sits down, with the jewels before him.]
A bowl of jewels is a lot of jewels.

THYRSIS:  [Chopping up the weed.] I wonder if it has a bitter taste.

CORYDON:  There’s sure to be a stone or two among them
I have grown fond of, pouring them from one hand
Into the other.

THYRSIS:  I hope it doesn’t taste
Too bitter, just at first.

CORYDON:  A bowl of jewels
Is far too many jewels to give away
And not get back again.

THYRSIS:  I don’t believe
He’ll notice.  He’s too thirsty.  He’ll gulp it down
And never notice.

CORYDON:  There ought to be some way
To get them back again. . . .  I could give him a necklace,
And snatch it back, after I’d drunk the water,
I suppose. . . .  Why, as for that, of course a necklace. . . .

[He puts two or three of the colored tapes together and tries their strength by pulling them, after which he puts them around his neck and pulls them, gently, nodding to himself.  He gets up and goes to the wall, with the colored tapes in his hands.]

[THYRSIS in the meantime has poured the powdered root—­black confetti—­into the pot which contained the flower and filled it up with wine from the punch-bowl on the floor.  He comes to the wall at the same time, holding the bowl of poison.]

THYRSIS:  Come, get your bowl of water, Corydon.