Pos. What is the meaning of this, Alpheus? unlike others, when you take your plunge you do not mingle with the brine as a river should; you do not put an end to your labours by dispersing; you hold together through the sea, keep your current fresh, and hurry along in all your original purity; you dive down to strange depths like a gull or a heron; I suppose you will come to the top again and show yourself somewhere or other.
Al. Do not press me, Posidon; a love affair; and many is the time you have been in love yourself.
Pos. Woman, nymph, or Nereid?
Al. All wrong; she is a fountain.
Pos. A fountain? and where does she flow?
Al. She is an islander--in Sicily. Her name is Arethusa.
Pos. Ah, I commend your taste. She is pellucid, and bubbles up in perfect purity; the water as bright over her pebbles as if it were a mass of silver.
Al. You know my fountain, Posidon, and no mistake. It is to her that I go.
Pos. Go, then; and may the course of love run smooth! But pray where did you meet her? Arcadia and Syracuse, you know!
Al. I am in a hurry; you are detaining me, with these superfluous questions.
Pos. Ah, so I am. Be off to your beloved, rise from the sea, mingle your channels and be one water.