And in the night look through the dark to her—
A myrtle-crown�d bride without her lord—
But yet our land, too poor in Ceres' smile
To outwoo Acad�me, may show some charm
To ease your banishment.
Aris. O, 'tis an isle
That 'neath the eye of Zeus might bloom nor blush
Save at his praise; yet holds within itself
Treasure that ornaments its cruder worth
As gems make eyes in stone,—a friend whose hand