This distresses you.
CHARICLEA.

No hand me the lyre:--no matter.

You will hear the song to disadvantage.

But if it were sung as I have heard it sung:--if this were a beautiful morning in spring, and if we were standing on a woody promontory, with the sea, and the white sails, and the blue Cyclades beneath us,--and the portico of a temple peeping through the trees on a huge peak above our heads,--and thousands of people, with myrtles in their hands, thronging up the winding path, their gay dresses and garlands disappearing and emerging by turns as they passed round the angles of the rock,--then perhaps-- ALCIBIADES.

Now, by Venus herself, sweet lady, where you are we shall lack neither sun, nor flowers, nor spring, nor temple, nor goddess.
CHARICLEA.