The Prophet is mild; to his mildness be praises;
He opens to sinners his Paradise!
Peer.
[His eyes following Anitra during the dance.]
Legs as nimble as drumsticks flitting.
She's a dainty morsel indeed, that wench!
It's true she has somewhat extravagant contours,—
Not quite in accord with the norms of beauty.
But what is beauty? A mere convention,—
A coin made current by time and place.
And just the extravagant seems most attractive
When one of the normal has drunk one's fill.
In the law-bound one misses all intoxication.
Either plump to excess or excessively lean;
Either parlously young or portentously old;—
The medium is mawkish.—
Her feet—they are not altogether clean;
No more are her arms; in especial one of them.
But that is at bottom no drawback at all.
I should rather call it a qualification—
Anitra, come listen!
Anitra.
[Approaching]
Thy handmaiden hears!
Peer.
You are tempting, my daughter! The Prophet is touched.
If you don't believe me, then hear the proof;—
I'll make you a Houri in Paradise!
Anitra.
Impossible, Lord!
