breathe with difficulty. Oh! Eros, can this be death?
Eros.
Death? Ah! no; you have roses in your cheeks, mother. Your lips are like blood.
Aphrodite.
It must be weariness. Ever these new sensations, these odd, exciting apprehensions! This must be mortality. I never breathed the faster as I rose from terrace to terrace in Cythera.
Eros.
Yet this is like Cythera—a little like it. [Looking round.] It is not the least like it. These round billowy woods, that grey strip of sea far below, the long smooth land with square yellow fields and pointed brown fields, and the wild grey
sky above. No; it would be impossible for anything to be less like Cythera.
Aphrodite.
Yet it is like it. [Gazing round.] How strange ... to be where everything is not azure and gold and white—white land, gold houses and blue sky and sea. What are these woods, Eros?