“Verily, I am Chloris, Niobe’s daughter, in the dance to be given at Pompey’s Theatre.”
“Who is the Niobe in the dance?”
“The Greek, Psyche. Hast thou seen her?”
“Ay, a beautiful girl.”
“A wonderful dancer,” added Merope.
“She dances not, O Merope. So light is she that she seems to float in the air,” said Elea.
“Is she not young for a Niobe?” asked Sabinus.
“Ay, her face is like that of a celestial Hora; but she carries years in the dignity of her pose.”
“’Tis her last dance.”
“Meanest thou that she leaves Rome?”