Hie. Not prayer! The casks will drip too free for that.
If any prayers come from the heart to throat,
They'll downward wash again, not out and fly.
Say'st midnight, sir?
Bia. I do. They will return
In time to set the galley from the cast
Of morning danger.
Hie. Move again? The ship
Is now to rearward, by some rods.
Bia. She is.
And shall go farther. Here's no fighting deck.
Hie. Ay, these soft cabins, Corinth-modelled as
A prince, would make a floating holiday,
Put soldiers from their place.
Bia. The ship must lie
Full east, on th' safest wave. We've treasure 'neath
These sails that make their weathered woof more dear
Than threaded gold of Hera's mantle.
Hie. Ah,
You mean the women.
Bia. No,—a woman. Come,
Lysander.
Lys. Sir, what time wilt take your place
Aboard the Ino?
Bia. Give me till the midnight,
I'll from that moment be your admiral.
But for these gentle hours that lie between,
I would as merest man use their light wings
To chase a hope through heaven.