“Tell me,” she cried, “do you
find no joy in my lips? Nor in the breath that faints with hunger? Nor in my
body wet with heat? If it is none of these, are you afraid of Giton?” I
crimsoned with blushes under her eyes, and lost any strength I might have had
before, and cried as though there were no whole part in my body, “Dear lady,
have mercy, do not mock my grief. Some poison has infected me.”.
“Speak to me, Chrysis, tell me true: am I ugly or untidy? Is there some natural
blemish that darkens my beauty? Do not deceive your own mistress. I know not
how, but I have sinned.” She then snatched a glass from the silent girl,
and after trying every look that raises a smile to most lovers' lips, she shook out
the cloak the earth had stained, and hurried into the temple of Venus. But I was
lost and horror-stricken as if I had seen a ghost, and began to inquire of my heart
whether I was cheated of my true delight.
As when dreams deceive our wandering eyes in the heavy slumber of night, and under
the spade the earth yields gold to the light of day: our greedy hands finger the
spoil and snatch at the treasure, sweat too runs down our face, and a deep fear
grips our heart that maybe some one will shake out our laden bosom, where he knows
the gold is hid: soon, when these pleasures flee from the brain they mocked, and the
true shape of things comes back, our mind is eager for what is lost, and moves with
all its force among the shadows of the past . .
“So in his name I give you thanks for loving me as true as Socrates. Alcibiades
never lay so unspotted in his master's bed.” . .