to the blood and burn into the bone, What shall this man do waking? By
the gods, He shall not pray to dream sweet things to-night, Having
dreamt once more bitter things than death. CHORUS. Queen, but what is it
that hath burnt thine heart? For thy speech flickers like a brown-out
flame. ALTHAEA. Look, ye say well, and know not what ye say, For all my
sleep is turned into a fire, And all my dreams to stuff that kindles it.
CHORUS. Yet one doth well being patient of the gods. ALTHAEA. Yea, lest
they smite us with some four-foot plague. CHORUS. But when time spreads
find out some herb for it. ALTHAEA. And with their healing herbs infect
our blood. CHORUS. What ails thee to be jealous of their ways? ALTHAEA.
What if they give us poisonous drinks for wine? CHORUS. They have their
will; much talking mends it not. ALTHAEA. And gall for milk, and cursing
for a prayer? CHORUS. Have they not given life, and the end of life?
ALTHAEA. Lo, where they heal, they help not; thus they do, They mock us
with a little piteousness, And we say prayers, and weep; but at the
last, Sparing awhile, they smite and spare no whit. CHORUS. Small praise
man gets dispraising the high gods: What have they done that thou