The gods allow us. I myself have trained
Young figures for the dance that wreathes with grace
The needful, idle hour.
Diony. You leave us music?
Aris. Ay, 'tis the angel 'tween the sense and soul,
A hand on each, that one may feel the touch
Of purest heaven mid rosy revelling,
The other catch sweet trembles of a wave
That shake her calm till white cheek meets the rose.
Diony. And feasting, sir?