Ganymede.
A priest, sire, the only one who saved his musical instrument through our calamities, stands within. Is your Majesty disposed to be sung to?
Zeus.
No, certainly not. Which is he? [The Priest is pointed out.] What an odd-looking person! Yes, he may give me a specimen of his art—a short one.
[The Priest comes forward; he is dressed in wild Thessalian raiment. He approaches with uncouth gestures, and a mixture of servility and self-consciousness. On receiving a nod from Zeus, he tunes his instrument and sings as follows:]
Wild swans winging Through the blue, Spiders springing To a clue, Till the sparkling drops renew All that ever Youth's endeavour Had determined to undo. White and blue are hoards of treasure, For the panting hands of pleasure To go dropping, dropping, dropping, Without measure Through and through.
Zeus.
Very pretty, I must say. Would you repeat it again?
[Priest repeats it again.]