20
Nor now was Aphrodite kinder grown:
Having her hated rival in her power,
She laught for joy, and in triumphant tone
Bade her a merry welcome to her bower:
''Tis fit indeed daughters-in-law should wait
Upon their mothers; but thou comest late,
Psyche; I lookt for thee before this hour.
21
'And yet,' thus gave she rein to jeer and gibe,
'Forgive me if I held thee negligent,
Or if accustom'd vanity ascribe
An honour to myself that was not meant.
Thy lover is it, who so dearly prized
The pretty soul, then left her and despised?
To him more like thy heavenward steps were bent:
22
'Nor without reason: Zeus, I tell thee, swoon'd
To hear the story of the drop of oil,
The revelation and the ghastly wound:
My merriment is but my fear's recoil.
But if my son was unkind, thou shalt see
How kind a goddess can his mother be
To bring thy tainted honour clear of soil.'
23
And so, to match her promise with her mirth,
Two of her ministers she call'd in ken,
That work the melancholy of the earth;
Merimna that with care perplexes, when
The hearts of mortals have the gods forgot,
And Lypè, that her sorrow spares them not,
When mortals have forgot their fellow men.
24
These, like twin sharks that in a fair ship's wake
Swim constant, showing 'bove the water blue
Their shearing fins, and hasty ravin make
Of overthrow or offal, so these two
On Aphrodite's passing follow hard;
And now she offer'd to their glut's regard
Sweet Psyche, with command their wont to do.
25
But in what secret chamber their foul task
These soul-tormentors plied, or what their skill,
Pity of tender nature may not ask,
Nor poet stain his rhyme with such an ill.
But they at last themselves turn'd from their rack,
Weary of cruelty, and led her back,
Saying that further torture were to kill.
26
Then when the goddess saw her, more she mockt
'Art thou the woman of the earth,' she said,
'That hast in sorceries mine Eros lockt,
And stood thyself for worship in my stead?
Looking that I should pity thee, or care
For what illicit offspring thou may'st bear;
Or let thee to that god my son be wed?
27
'I know thy trick; and thou art one of them
Who steal love's favour in the gentle way,
Wearing submission for a diadem,
Patience and suffering for thy rich array:
Thou wilt be modest, kind, implicit, so
To rest thy wily spirit out of show
That it may leap the livelier into play: