Put out your hand, young princess, dip your hand
Among these herded common indiscretions,
And gratefully they'll mouth it. Nay, I'll lead you.
Second Woman.
Madam, remember me when you are mighty.
Third Woman.
And, O, forget not me.
Laodice.
Arise, you humbled ones, jealous too long;
Take off her Greekish marks of my poor service,
Make ready her precious body to be tangled
In clotted skeins of her affiliate province.
The women strip Danaë of all but her under-robe.
O friend, I do reproach you, for your gay heart
Has surely turned from me too easily
When something in you fades and alters so....
I have done this—my cherished, still keep mine....
Barsine enters, her arms heaped with robes: Laodice fingers them.
These are your pretties. Greeks know not how to use
Layers of denial—you Persian, can you say?
Barsine, attiring Danaë in the new garments.
These silken trousers tied above the knees,
Yet falling to the feet, are first.
Laodice. Ay, so.
Barsine.
And now this inner gown shrinks close.
Laodice. Ay, so.
Barsine.
Then this brocady robe with fan-flung train
And widening muffling sleeves.
Laodice, holding up a sleeve. Can it be so?
Pure Greeks conceive not slavery of sleeves.
Barsine.
The pointed citron shoes.
Laodice. Not even sandals?
Barsine.
There needs a shawl like gardens for a girdle,
But none was hoarded.
Laodice. Put your own on her.
Give me the jewels: I wish to play with the jewels.
Barsine.
In the horn sphere: press on the metal hands.
The strings of golden tears and yellow stones
Hang hidy in the hair. I will unbind
Your lady's locks and shew you.
Laodice. Keep off: I must unloose them,
It is my custom.
Danaë, in a low voice. O, what are you doing?
Barsine.
Round to the temples, so: this drops upon the brow....
That breast of gold—pierced roses, diamond dew—
Curves on the head, no heavier than your hand....
Coils chime upon the ankles—the East walks slowly.
Laodice.
We come to the necklace.
Barsine. Yes, but it is lacking.
Laodice, to the Second Woman.
You white-faced marvel, body of straight lines,
Give me your necklace dropt inside your chiton.
Second Woman.
O, do you see it? I cannot let it go—
It was my sister's, and she is dead since.... Ah ... h ...
Laodice, snatching the necklace roughly.
'Tis well for you it did not strangle you
When caught: but ye are all so envious yet.
There, Danaë, my hands shall finish you.
A painted wonder this I have created—
I am no better than the rest before it,
And I will do my homage, knees and lips.
Danaë, faintly.
What is the end, ah me!
Laodice. But in true Asia
Great ladies must live veiled; they are too choice
For foreign casual sight.
Barsine, veiling Danaë. This is the veil.
Laodice, peeping behind the veil.
Bound so beneath the eyes? Show slipper-tips?
Indeed you are ended, Danaë, and shall part.
Farewell! Farewell! Fare delicately! Fare swiftly!
Will you go down by Ephesus, my rose;
Or all the sea?
First Woman. Not Babylon by sea!
Laodice.
If not to Babylon, yet far enough.
Tie up these arms and bind these feet together;
Bear to the columns and cast her forth to sea,
Where she shall be my satrap of the darkness.
She has been dying many moments now,
She shall have burial as one who ceases
In a strange ship, unfriended on the deeps.
The women laugh.
First Woman.
Joy—but wherewith, O Light?
Laodice. Your sandal-thongs:
You are good enough to obey me on bare feet.