You shall find food, drink, odor, all at once;
Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow,
And, never much away, the nightingale.
Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again,
Down to the verse that ends all, proverb-like,
And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name!"
But I cried, "Brother Greek! better than so,—
Save us, and I have courage to recite
The main of a whole play from first to last;
That strangest, saddest, sweetest song of his,