_As she begins to speak_ DANAË'S _hair is shaken loose; a rose falls from it and breaks on_ LAODICE'S _shoulder._ LAODICE _laughs and plays with the petals, continuing without pause._
LAODICE. Do you drop me a sleepy kiss, maiden, my rare one? But, O, you have so tumbled your hair to cull it-- Come hither, kneel, and I will bind it up.
DANAË, _obeying._ Lady, I coiled it carelessly.... Indeed Such ministration is my precious pardon.
LAODICE. Silk, silky silk so delicious to finger.... Rose I held; ruby-glows; then dark hair in my hands.... Nay, I am hot; I burn; stay there and fan me.... Dear, do not cease at all. _To_ SOPHRON. Well, my captain?
SOPHRON. You shall have men's minds searched in Ephesus.
LAODICE. I like your mind. Also, I have considered You must shut up your port, let out no ship; Then Ptolemy shall be more sure each night That he has wiped the seas ... till you slip out.
SOPHRON, _in stupefaction._ Slip ... out?
SOPHRON, _eagerly._ Yes, yes: These things shall be, and you shall not complain.
LAODICE. Nay, go not now; be my great guest this night. The tide will take you not until more day, And in the dawn, white hour of clearest thought, I need more counsel from you for my deeds.
_She claps her hands:_ BARSINE, _a Persian, enters._
Let this strong captain be well feasted now In winy webs of my embroidering-- Or--no--a purple suits his temper best; And send a slave to him for him to rule.
SOPHRON. Graciousness, yours: let me but stay my seamen.
LAODICE. Haretas the Pisidian shall go down Into the place of ships, but not my guest: Entrust your ring to this, and she will bear it.
_BARSINE and SOPHRON go out. LAODICE nods to herself._
I saw his ring: it was a new green scarab.
_DANAË ceases fanning without LAODICE heeding._
RHODOGUNE, _outside._ She-dog, come back and you shall have but whips.
_A dirty woman runs in, bearing a bundle within her ragged robe;_ RHODOGUNE _follows her._
LAODICE, _slowly._ I have not need of rinds and lees to-night; Come, take these out and burn them.
LAODICE, _starting up._ Mysta, Mysta, my joy! What have you there? The thing a mother called Antiochus?
MYSTA. I was the handmaid of a displaced queen; I am dry nurse to the undoubted queen, Come back merely to boast and make display How lusty a baby grows in careful hands, How noble I to carry a living king.