Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut,
Having won that golden fleece, a woman’s love,
Desertest for this Glaucè.
Vic. Hold thy peace!
She cares not for me. She may wed another,
Or go into a convent, and thus dying,
Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields.
Hyp. (rising.) And so, good night! Good morning, I should say.
It is no longer night, nor is it day.
But in the east the paramour of Morn,