where nor shepherd dares to herd his flock nor ever scythe hath mown, but o’er the mead unshorn the bee doth wing its way in spring; and with the dew from rivers drawn purity that garden tends. Such as know no cunning lore, yet in whose nature self-control, made perfect, hath a home, these may pluck the flowers, but not the wicked world. Accept, I pray, dear mistress, mine this chaplet from my holy hand to crown thy locks of gold; for I, and none other of mortals, have this high guerdon, to be with thee, with thee converse, hearing thy voice, though not thy face beholding. So be it mine to end my life as I began. Attendants My prince! we needs must call upon the gods, our lords, so wilt thou listen to a friendly word from me? Hippolytus Why, that will I! else were I proved a fool. Attendants Dost know, then, the way of the world? Hippolytus Not I; but wherefore such a question? Attendants It hates reserve which careth not for all men’s love. Hippolytus And rightly too; reserve in man is ever galling. Attendants But there’s a charm in courteous affability? Hippolytus The greatest surely; aye, and profit, too, at trifling cost. Attendants Dost think the same law holds in heaven as well?