Circe monologue — Circe : $b A dramatic fantasy

O put the thought aside, Ulysses! It is some youthful prank, or a mere jest Fresh-coin’d with sober mouth. Nor falls amiss Thus on the girl’s untried, too tender spirit Some jar and crossing ere the final shock, So to forestall and break it. And this moon! Well she deserves, Ulysses, in thy sight. Have we not sought ourselves her soothing spell? Masking a farewell colloquy in smiles, As yonder silver’d wave-tips feign deliverance From the encircling gloom of envious night. Ah! if thou didst but know, Son of Laertes, half the struggles that wait thee By Neptune’s billowy realm and, rescued thence, In deadly strife at thy rude island-home, Then wouldst thou feel, perchance, less haste to leave Circe, the frail enchantress.—Ay, not all The signs to guide and perils that impend Canst thou learn now. Some, long in mystery wrapt (Nor wouldst thou choose to speed them), time will teach; Others, from ghostly lips compell’d, when soon, By Ocean’s stream thy lone bark moor’d, thou standest At the dark doors of Hades to evoke Theban Tiresias’ shade, the seer shall utter.