Zeus. With a whirr and a crash
Let the levin-bolt dash—
Ah, whither?
Hera. A truce to your passion, Zeus. We have not these good people’s gift for farce or recitation; we have not swallowed Euripides whole, and cannot play up to you. Do you suppose we do not know how to account for your annoyance?
Zeus. Thou knowst not; else thy waitings had been loud.
Hera. Don’t tell me; it’s a love affair; that’s what’s the matter with you. However, you won’t have any ‘wailings’ from me; I am too much hardened to neglect. I suppose you have discovered some new Danae or Semele or Europa whose charms are troubling you; and so you are meditating a transformation into a bull or satyr, or a descent through the roof into your beloved’s bosom as a shower of gold; all the symptoms—your groans and your tears and your white face—point to love and nothing else.
Zeus. Happy ignorance, that sees not what perils now forbid love and such toys!
Hera. Is your name Zeus, or not? and, if so, what else can possibly annoy you but love?
Zeus. Hera, our condition is most precarious; it is touch- and-go, as they call it, whether we are still to enjoy reverence and honour from the earth, or be utterly neglected and become of no account.
Hera. Has Earth produced a new brood of giants? Have the Titans broken their chains, overpowered their guards, and taken up arms against us once more?
Zeus. Nay, fear not that; Hell threatens not the Gods.
Hera. What can the matter be, then? To hear you, one might think it was Polus or Aristodemus, not Zeus; and why, pray, if something of that sort is not bothering you?