Praxinoë. May you be all right, my dear sir, to the last day you live, for the care you have taken of us! What a kind, considerate man! There is Eunoë jammed in a squeeze. Push, you goose, push! Capital! We are all of us the right side of the door, as the bridegroom said when he had locked himself in with the bride.
Gorgo. Praxinoë, come this way. Do but look at that work, how delicate it is!—how exquisite! Why, the gods might wear it in heaven.
Praxinoë. Goddess of Spinning, what hands were hired to do that work? Who designed those beautiful patterns? They seem to stand up and move about, as if they were real—as if they were living things, and not needlework. Well, man is a wonderful creature! And look, look, how charming he lies there on his silver couch, with just a soft down on his cheeks, that beloved Adonis—Adonis, whom one loves even though he is dead!
Another stranger. You wretched women, do stop your incessant chatter! Like turtles, you go on for ever.
Gorgo. Lord, where does the man come from? What is it to you if we are chatterboxes? Order about your own servants!
Praxinoë. Oh, honey-sweet Proserpine, let us have no more masters than the one we’ve got! We don’t the least care for you; pray don’t trouble yourself for nothing.
Gorgo. Be quiet, Praxinoë! That first-rate singer, the Argive woman’s daughter, is going to sing the Adonis hymn. She is the same who was chosen to sing the dirge last year. We are sure to have something first-rate from her. She is going through her airs and graces ready to begin.
Theocritus (Fifteenth Idyll).
This is Matthew Arnold’s translation of a poem by Theocritus, who lived in the Third Century B.C., 2,200 years ago, (see Arnold’s Essay on Pagan and Mediaeval Religious Sentiment). I have altered a few words and also omitted part because of its length.