Lycinus Why then, Polystratus, you shall give me story for story, good measure, shaken together, out of your abundance: paint me the portrait of her soul, that I may be no more her halfadmirer.
Polystratus This will be no light task, my friend. It is one thing to commend what all the world can see, and quite another to reveal what is hidden. I too shall want help with my portrait. Nor will sculptors and painters suffice me: I must have philosophers; itis by their canons that I must adjust the proportions of the figure, if I am to attain to the perfection of ancient models.
To begin then. Of her clear, liquid voice Homer might have said, with far more truth than of aged Nestor’s, that honey from those lips distilled. The pitch, exquisitely soft, as far removed from masculine bass as from ultra-feminine treble, is that of a boy before his voice breaks; sweet, seductive, suavely penetrating; it ceases, and still vibrating murmurs play, echo-like, about the listener’s ears, and Persuasion leaves her honeyed track upon his mind. But oh! the joy, to hear her sing, and sing to the lyre’s accompaniment. Let swans and halcyons and cicalas then be mute. There is no music like hers; Philomela’s self, ‘full-throated songstress ’ though she be, is all unskilled beside her.
