“A truce to thy poetic fancies, my gallant. They say the bird hath an incumbrance.”
“A lover in her train, sayest thou?”
“Nay; a small brother.”
“Did the skies drop them down with the hail-stones in the storm that just passed over, Marcius?”
“I cannot swear to it, my Leander; but it seemeth likely, for the slaves say that they appeared just afterwards at the gate which opens toward the Cydnus.”
“O thou prosaic Roman! It is the gods who are prodigal with their favors.”
“Be it so. Who recks the wind, where it blows, so that it ministers to our fancies. Thou art an ardent votary of thy favorite divinities; but miracles like this are not common.”
“Ah! the Muses whisper to us:—
‘Love, sons of earth—for love is earth’s soft lore,
Look where ye will—earth overflows with me,