SCENE 1. _An outer court, Dioniysius' palace. Two entrances to

palace on the right. Columns rear. Sea and sky seen between them. Behind columns a street. At left a garden. Speusippus and lords pass from street toward garden._

_Speu._ Dion, my lords, has gathered friends in Athens, And waits your invitation to set sail With power for your relief. Six circled moons Have risen from the sea since he was banished And you are dumb as you were staring yet Upon the marvel of his taking off.

_First lord._ What is his life with you?

_Speu._ He walks a mark For Athens' eye,--a breathing virtue, sir, Making the good in other men stand still To gaze at what in him is better.

_Second lord._ This Is his true color.

_Speu._ True? By Pallas, sir, Apollo purges not more ardently The earth of humors than he iniquity From man and state! Divinity has made His heart her brooding place to bring forth deeds So like her own complexion that men read The book of Heaven in them and grow wise Without the aid of schools.

_First lord._ We know our loss.

_Third lord._ The tyrant sends him his great revenues.

_Speu._ Which Dion casts like sweet and general rain On parching poverty. His charity Is a perpetual summer where bruised merit Lifteth in flower.

_Second lord._ So was it here.

_Speu._ And you Could have him home had you some brave Greek blood At heart. Please you, I've heard a shepherdess Combed wool on Dardan plain when Troy was burning Methinks Sicilian sires bred from that dame.

_First lord._ By Zeus, this is bold rating.

_Second lord._ 'Tis our due. 'Twixt caution's pause and the delay of shame Lies but one step, and Syracuse is on it. Courage grows agued and hunches at the hearth Forefearing enterprise.

_Speu._ Can you be still?

_Third lord._ No more, my lord. Here's Dionysius.

[_They move into garden as Dionysius enters from street with Aristocles and other lords, and turns toward palace_]

_First lord._ He's well attended.

_Second lord._ Ay, let tattered vice Step out o' door and contemnation hoots It home again, while silken viciousness May march as 't will 'tween meek uncovered polls, With Flattery's footmen running neck and neck To open any gate.

_First lord._ True! true!

_Speu._ Talk! talk! A sword's the tongue for me!

_Third lord._ The tyrant speaks. Hark, friends!

_Diony._ Aristocles, excepting thee No man alive might teach me hate myself. Say what thou wilt, I'll love thee!

_Third lord._ Fair enough.

_Second lord._ Fair in the flower, but no fruit, my lord. The fragrance sickens. A sound wholesome deed Were pungent sniffing!

_Aris._ Sir, upon the soil Of this fair courtesy I'd lodge a seed Might bloom with Dion's pardon.

_Diony._ Pardon Dion! By Delos' horned altar, no! My tongue Compound my own destruction?

_Aris._ Sir, your tongue Is bound to you, but I could wish it had A wiser master.

_Diony._ Roast me in the bull Of Phalaris, if I be such a fool! Thou know'st that he conspired against me!

_Aris._ Nay----

_Diony._ With honey breath you steal into my heart But to betray it!

_Aris._ I pray your leave to sail From Sicily. Greece hath a place for me Above insult.

_Diony._ Go when you will. To-day! Our admiral shall bear you. [_To Heraclides_] Hear you, sir? Choose out your ship. Aristocles, farewell. Talk not of me i' the Acad�me.

_Aris._ My lord, The gods take care we've no such dearth of matter. Farewell.

_Diony._ [_As Aristocles turns to go_] Dost mean it? Nay! Spoil not my jest. Canst take offence from one who loveth thee? In truth wouldst go?

_Aris._ The winds that fan me hence Will be as welcome as the breeze that lifts The sail of calm-bound mariners that long Have in mid-ocean rocked and dreamed of food.

_Diony._ No, no, my friend! Thou shalt not go from me! Dost call thyself philosopher, and take First chance to fly thy duty here? Hear you, Lord admiral. Watch every gate nor let This bold man pass. Sink the Sicilian fleet Ere you do spare a ship for hire or pity To grant him sail and beggar me of friends, For all my friends are corporate now in him. [_To Aristocles_] Talk not of parting while you have my love. Cold yet? Go seek my sister. She will bring Your high look to sweet friendship's level. Go. Yours is the only tongue can draw her from Her tearful reticence. Tell her the stars Will find me with her. I have news too new For pale indifference. 'Twill rouse her wrath Or pleasure. [_Speusippus and companions pass from garden to street and off left_] Ha, what Greekish stranger there?

_Phil._ Speusippus, sir.

_Diony._ Methought his acid look Had turned my purple cloak a pauperish yellow.

_Phil._ Aristocles best knows him. An Athenian.

_Aris._ [_Who is slowly going into palace by smaller entrance, front, turns_] And worthy of his birth. He is my friend, And brings me Dion's love.

_Diony._ That name again! ... Well, thou 'rt my soul.

[_Aristocles goes into palace. Dionysius turns to larger entrance rear_]

_Phil._ [_Detaining Heraclides_] A word with you, my lord.

[_Dionysius and attendants enter palace_]

_Her._ What's urgent, friend?

_Phil._ Marked you Speusippus?

_Her._ Ay.

_Phil._ He comes to stir a war in Dion's name. Already there's a rumbling 'mong the people That warns us to be swift.

_Her._ My fears have caught it.

_Phil._ The tyrant's mood is ripe. See how he loves And hates Aristocles? This is the hour To move him to the Athenian's death.

_Her._ You're right. When friendship oars 'tween choler and regard, A crafty hand may steer which wish�d way Sets wind of secret business, and he That rides be none the wiser.

_Phil._ The Athenian Removed, then Dionysius is our own.

_Her._ Well have short need of him. The tyrant's guards Are envious of the Greek to murder's pitch, Because he counsels Dionysius To cast them off and rule by love alone. The captain stands our friend, his sword aloft To fall as turns the hair.

_Phil._ The guards must do 't. The people hold them privileged in humors, And say not yea or nay to them. But does Callorus join us?

_Her._ He yet hesitates.

_Phil._ Then cease your suasion and to his easy state Clap screws will cramp. Pain is the orator Can clinch his case and drive the question home.

_Her._ You'll to �gisthus?

_Phil._ Ay, though we've a difference. A trifle that his vanity may stand on.

_Her._ Make your excuse, but study how you do it. Faults oft are none till clapped conspicuous With an apology.

_Phil._ I've learned of you. None has a tongue more apt to come at love 'Neath what ill cover hides it. Dionysius I leave to you. My name use as 'twere yours. My sum of wisdom is to know your own And trust you wholly.

_Her._ That you may, Phillistus. My fame rests on this move. [_Exit_]

_Phil._ Your fame, good sir, Has naught to do with what I close intend. By Victory's wings, I'll reach the top of power, Or from her golden ball knock Fortune's foot And steer her course myself! Now to Nauresta.

[_Goes into palace, front entrance. Brentio, Tichus and Methone enter merrily from garden. Brentio carries a large harp. They sit on benches left_]

_Bren._ These are merry days since Dionysius brought us to the palace. I would weep for my poor banished master, for they say a far country makes a weary foot, but there's so much laughing matter here--the singing and the rhyming, and the pretty wenches tripping your eyes up at every corner, that my tears are no more out than I've good reason to whip them in again.

_Meth._ O Venus! There's no laughing here save of your dreaming. Dost see how the courtiers scowl? They say the scholars and philosophers leave them no dancing room in the palace; the halls are full of sand for the pleasure of the students that come to draw those foolish figures--plates, they call em----

_Tich._ Geometry.

_Bren._ That's your master's doing. Thank the wise man for that!

_Meth._ It suits our mistresses well enough. They blink at a smile as an owlet at the sun. Troth, I've seen them weep so much that I feel wrapped in a fog with the vapor of their tears.

_Tich._ But let us be merry. No more sad airs, my sweet Methone.

_Bren._ [_Aside_] I like not this sugary possessive.... Play, my own sweetest Methone, and I'll sing you a song out of head.

_Meth._ Pray you, sing it not out of feet too, for a limping line is past carrying.

_Bren._ 'Tis a song of you and will go fast enough, I warrant.

_Meth._ [_Scornfully_] Of me?

_Bren._ Nay, of your jewels!

_Meth._ An you mock me, I'll----

_Bren._ [_Touching his lips_] Your rubies [_pointing to his eyes_], your diamonds [_grinning to show teeth_], your pearls.

_Tich._ You may sing that song when diamonds wink tears, rubies pucker for kisses, and pearls bite figs i' the morning.

_Bren._ Well, I've a better one. [_Sings_]

Her voice is like the birds that wive When blossoms swing in April trees, And from her bosom's honey hive Sighs come and go like bees. Her smile----

_Meth._ Nay, I'm no farm-house sweet for loutish Corydon! How would you sing me, master Tichus, were I in Athens where every maid is fair?

_Tich._ With more truth and less boast.

_Meth._ Your song, sir.

[_Tichus sings_]

Heigh-ho, my star of love Has left its heaven high, And all the beauteous court above, To dwell in fair Methone's eye. And now, alas, unlucky bliss, It finds a home so bright That all its beauty buried is Within that fairer, cruel light.

No more, no more it shines for me But as she gives it leave! O, bid thy stars, sweet maid, agree----

_Bren._ Ho, if heaven had no stars save those left by lovers after fitting up their mistress' eyes, Erebus would stumble for want of candles!

_Meth._ [_Jumping up_] Go! I hear my mistress!

[_Tichus walks leisurely into garden, Brentio following_]

_Meth._ Brentio, take the harp!

[_Brentio returns and picks up harp_]

_Bren._ So! I'm an excellent dromedary, if I can't flute it like Apollo.

_Meth._ Run, snail!

_Bren._ Not I, by Vulcan's limp!

[_Theano appears at smaller entrance of palace_]

_The._ Methone?

[_Brentio runs into garden_]

_The._ [_Coming out_] You here, Methone? Attend the lady Nauresta. I fear your pleasure and your duty lie Too far apart. [_Exit Methone, right_] Ocrastes, come! My love! Fair clos�d flowers that wait the royal dawn Ere they will sport with beauty's open face Are as my heart that caseth up its joy To wait thy voice.

[_The day darkens to dusk. Theano looks into the garden, suddenly eager_]

He's coming! No, he stops To talk with Brentio. How close they whisper! What is 't he gives the slave? For shame, bold eyes, To spy upon a lord so true! What was 't Phillistus said? No matter. It was false.

[_She moves aside as Brentio crosses to palace_]

_Bren._ [_Jingling coins_] O sweet, sweet gold! Art mine--all mine--my love? And will I do it? Ay! I'd sell my soul To such a brave paymaster.

[_Enters palace_]

_Oc._ [_Coming on right, not seeing Theano_] Vile, too vile! Let me not think of it.

_The._ Ocrastes?

_Oc._ Ah, My never-setting star!

_The._ But you are troubled. Hast news?

_Oc._ Rumors, my girl. They're in the air Like floating poisons. O that Syracuse Had one man in 't!

_The._ Look in my eyes and see him.

_Oc._ One sword in one right hand!

_The._ Here, in my eyes.

_Oc._ I see a dallying, damn�d temporizer, Who stops to count the threatening dragon's teeth Ere reaving him of head.

_The._ My love, what is it?

_Oc._ Still Dion lingers, playing the game of wits In idle Athens, while scandal eats his name----

_The._ Ocrastes!

_Oc._ Yes, I said it.

_The._ Ah, you mean----

_Oc._ I mean----

_The._ Aristocles.

_Oc._ O, Dion, Dion!

_The._ Speusippus says he comes.

_Oc._ Too late he comes That should be here already.

_The._ Dear my love, He is not young as you, and years are cautious. While age makes ready to resent affront The blows of youth are given and forgot.

_Oc._ Ah, my Theano, I've but one place of peace-- Nay, I've not that--your pity-housing bosom. Though �olus' thirty sons made centre round me, There should I rest as on a summer cloud Rose-covered by the toil of flying doves To keep off heaven's tears. And you deny it!

_The._ My own!

_Oc._ You do not love me!

_The._ Hear him not, O patient Heaven!

_Oc._ Come to me, Theano.

_The._ Not while my mother lives to suffer for it.

_Oc._ My love, as nature runs, she must die first. Forgive my rudest tongue--but will you then-- When so she goes--bring all this heart to me? I'm tortured lest her bitter will against me Should reach back from the tomb.

_The._ Ah, my beloved, The wounds we give the dead must fall unfelt. Then why should senseless graves wound life? Ay, then-- Unhappy happy then--I'll be all yours.

[_Enter Methone, right_]

_Meth._ Mistress Theano, your mother is strangely ill. I pray you, come.

_The._ O me, my fatal word!

_Oc._ Nay, 'twas our watchful star moved me to urge it. Let me go with you, love, and strive once more To win the picket of her bluff regard.

_The._ Not now. Wait here until I come again. [_Exit Theano_]

_Oc._ The silken bud that holds a treasured world Uncaskets nothing in the hour of bloom, But fans the air with its own waste of leaves. Even so my hope, that with the swelling year Pressed to a summer crown, unfolds on naught And prodigal of self to naught is come.

[_Goes into garden. Stars appear in the sky visible beyond columns, rear. Servants come out of the palace and set lights about the court. Enter Aratea and Aristocles from palace, front. They cross to rear and sit between two of the columns_]

_Ara._ Aristocles--my Dion's friend and mine-- rest upon your soul and feel encirqued By silent potence, like the quietude Of heaven when gods are still,--when prayers come not, And enters no desire. So strange--this peace. My infant eyes oped on a shaking isle, And I was cradled in my father's wars. O soon, too soon, I knew woe's touch of death! But these are living days--days to be wreathed With memory's stars, and circled new each morn With pearls iridian from regretful eyes That they--such days--can pass.

_Aris._ Eternity Looked once upon the world, where lingers yet Some brightness of her eye that we call Time. Can aught so fleet hold value of thy tear? Thou who hast the immortal heritage?

_Ara._ I can not say. Your mind in heaven sleeps, And by the day you but recall your dreams; While I, my lord, couch not so gloriously, And from the earth must speak.

_Aris._ O, not from earth----

[_Re-enter Ocrastes_]

_Ara._ [_To Ocrastes_] Will you not sit with us?

_Oc._ Nay, I'll rest here.

[_Lies down on one of the long seats_]

I know you talk of Dion, and one who loves him Brings no intrusive ear,--or if it is, 'Tis deaf with weariness.

_Ara._ [_To Aristocles_] He's tempest-racked Between his love and friend. Ay, me, the world!

_Aris._ I'll leave you now. No more of my poor thoughts. You're wearied with long listening. [_Rises_]

_Ara._ O, sir, Your thoughts are flowers and your words their fragrance; I do not hear but breathe them. Pray you, stay!

[_He slowly resumes his seat. She looks silently at the sky. He writes on tablet_]

_Ara._ Aristocles, thou wilt be god of gods When thou 'rt among those stars; but now, O friend, Come nearer earth. Be mortal for my sake. I'm fearful when you're gone, or when your soul Keeps court so far above me.

_Aris._ I'll read to you.

_Ara._ What you have written there?

_Aris._ No--no--'tis nothing.

_Ara._ Ah, do not read to-night. I am so lonely That even with a book I would not share thee, Though it should tempt with the most wondrous hap Of bard or lover caught in liquid line. You've travelled much; tell me an Egypt tale. I'm weary of nymphs, and piping shepherd songs, And the ever-wrangling gods of blue Olympus.

_Aris._ Then hear the tale of Isis as 'tis told By the prophet-cradling Nile when Lotus buds Upbreathing blow new seasons of old dreams. Not e'en our Venus, dove-led, invisible, More softly moves to Paphos wood than she O'er sleeping earth. Her wings lead on the light, And when she lifts them dawn awakes.

_Ara._ Fair Isis!

_Aris._ She seeks her brother, self-created, slain By his own pride, for he was God of All. Her tears, like weeping music, sweeten earth, Nor rests she till she finds him.

_Ara._ Sister Isis!

_Aris._ And then--none knows how hid in solitude She suckles death with life till he new rises The God of All, too great for pride, too just For death; the sire of Beauty, breathing Life Through Love,--soul of the nurturing sun-- The mother-breast of fields--the parent thrill Of birds, of trees, of flowers--of all that makes Most sweet the fair world's mortal pageantry,-- Yea of the eternal, vital glow that throbs Within humanity's deep-rubied heart. So runs the myth, dear Aratea.

_Ara._ Ah! How runs the rubric of thy thought that sets The symbol plain? Read that to me, I pray thee.

_Aris._ The lonely mind may not uprafter stars, And vain, adventurous man who of himself Createth Heaven must see it fall. Then doth The woman spirit, girdle of the worlds, Above the ruins cry,--his mate forgot Who from his flesh by love's divinity Calls forth the beauteous eternities To star the globe of life.

_Oc._ [_Rising_] Which is to say, As simple people speak in Sicily, A man must wed!

_Ara._ Ocrastes, talk not so! Like stars that may not range below the zenith, His meaning keeps the orbit of high thought, And will not dwell in gross and simple words.

_Oc._ Ho, mistress Dion, you too would like to spin Your cobwebs round the moon! [_To Aristocles_] Get you to Athens, While you may say to Dion she is true!

[_Aristocles tries to speak_]

O, ay, I know what you would say, my lord. You would not love Aurora though she dropped Her morning mantle at your feet and blushed Herself revestured. No! But Aratea! She has a human heart,--eyes that can fill With tears,--soft hands that love the thing they touch,-- A body that might be the ivory cup Delight doth use to dip and measure out The rose-flood of her pleasure. Go, I say! Take to the sea, and leave no track my sword May follow. [_Rushes into garden_]

_Ara._ Sir, forgive his madness! Ah, He is distracted by these wrongs to Dion. I have not told you, friend, that Dionysius To-day seized all possessions of my lord, And stopped all moneys to him. In this deed Ocrastes reads the preface to new woes, Which shakes his mind's security and gives A living color to his fantasies.

[_Aristocles stands gazing out, not showing his face_]

But Heaven and I know your white soul, my lord----

[_Enter Callorus, from palace, larger entrance, with guards_]

_Callo._ Your pardon, worthy sage and fairest lady. I come from Dionysius, whose care Has bared a plot against Aristocles, Whom he for safety bids repair at once To the castle fort, where he must rest to-night In sure protection of the royal guards.

_Ara._ The guards? The royal guards?

_Callo._ You will make haste, My lord? Before the people move against you. Hearing that Dion has set sail with troops To level Syracuse, they think 'tis by Your aid and counsel. Pray you, lose no time.

_Aris._ I'll go with you, Callorus. Not from fear, But to keep riot down that else might shake The city's peace. [_To Aratea_] Farewell.

[_Exeunt Aristocles, Callorus and guards, by street_]

_Ara._ Farewell? I could not speak. The tyrant's guards! They hate Aristocles. My fears have now a shape and short will show Their foulest face. I must take means at once To learn the truth. My careful Dionysius, I will be vigilant too.

[_Turns to go in. Picks up a bit of paper_]

'Tis what he wrote And said 'twas nothing. O,--a pretty rhyme!

[_Reads_]

_Thine eyes are on the stars, my Star! Would I might be That heaven far With thousand eyes on thee!_

He is a poet. Ay, 'tis but a rhyme. And yet--'tis very pretty--I will keep it.

[_Re-enter Ocrastes from garden. He approaches Aratea as if he would speak, but she hurries into palace, entrance front, without seeing him. He retires in gloom_ _as Dionysius and a train of lords come out of palace, large entrance, rear_]

_Diony._ Come, friends! Now is the sweetest garden hour, When day's dust-foul�d trail is passed, and night Has not yet donned her moist and heavy cloak.

[_They cross to garden_]

Here let us wait the lords. We've summoned all Of golden purse and of right noble line. Now that we've stopped all revenues to Dion, And this night give our sister to a husband Of our own choosing----

_Oc._ Dionysius!

_Diony._ Ha! You, Ocrastes? Know to whom you speak!

_Oc._ My lord, you would not dare----

_Diony._ Not dare? That word Is strange to me. Will some good scholar here Tell me its meaning?

_Oc._ Pardon, mighty lord. I sought to warn you that the wife of Dion----

_Diony._ Your blood moves hotly off in Dion's cause, And warning from our chief suspected foe----

_Oc._ This arm has fought your battles, sir!

_Diony._ Ay, so. Would we might rank your famous valiancy Once more with us, but while we doubt your heart You are our enemy.

_Oc._ What proof, my lord----

_Diony._ We'll find it soon enough. Till then have care, And dainty walk 'tween wolf and precipice!

[_Dionysius and lords go into garden_]

_Oc._ No cry this wrong would give the sea new tongue, And mend the winds with utterance! But now No time for sighs and groans. The tyrant's brow Is hung with murder's cloud. I must be quick Or lose the breath ties me to upper earth. Action must take the vantage now of thought, And reason follow after.

[_Re-enter Theano, from palace_]

_The._ I was long. ... She's better now, and quiet.

_Oc._ Better? Who?

_The._ Who?--O! My mother.

_Oc._ Fie, does she yet live?

_The._ O gentle gods!

_Oc._ All women now should die.

_The._ Ocrastes!

_Oc._ Do not stare. Thine eyes are not The only home of agony. Farewell!

_The._ Farewell? No, no! [_Clinging to him_] You'll tell me first! What is it? Will you not trust me?

_Oc._ 'Tis thy trust I want.

_The._ Thou hast it.

_Oc._ Swear 'tis mine.

_The._ My lover!

_Oc._ Swear! Thy trust! Thy perfect trust!

_The._ 'Tis thine. I swear it.

_Oc._ Though fiends of doubt hail thee on every side, Venting their slander from the mouth of winds. Yet wilt thou trust me?

_The._ Ay, my lord, I will!

[_Lords begin to enter from the garden_]

_Oc._ Once more to-night I'll see thee. Go!

_The._ My love!

_Oc._ Go, go!

[_Theano goes into palace. Dionysius comes from garden. Ocrastes moves aside and stands in shadow_]

_Diony._ 'Tis time our sister should be told Our happy purpose.

_A lord._ She is here.

[_Aratea re-enters, and hastens across to Dionysius_]

_Ara._ My brother, I came to seek you. Lord Aristocles----

_Diony._ Ay, troubles press upon us, dearest sister, And much is trembling in adventure's hand. Now do we need your husband's strength to meet Ill fortune's tide.

_Ara._ Then you have sent for Dion? O, you forgive!

_Diony._ Speak not that traitor's name! He is the foe 'gainst whom I must go forth. You are to wed a lord whose might shall be My own. To-night! Dost hear?

_Ara._ Ay, Dionysius.

_Diony._ And art not pleased? No thanks that I provide For your forsaken state? Now, now! One word. Stand not so fixed, as I had ordered you To instant death.

_Ara._ You make me marble, sir. Unloose my soul's locked torture with the key Of one retracting word, or I must seek In kinder stone my sole relief from pain. O, say it is not so! This is a jest Will make you weep when you----

_Diony._ Jesting to fools! Not thron�d skies can change what we've determined. This rebel brow shocks my fond heart that toils In your ungracious service. Come, my friends. All to the council hall! With me, my sister.

_Ara._ O, brother, not one moment to look back And say farewell to Heaven? Not one to gaze Into the darkness ere I plunge to hell?

_Diony._ And let the hour 'tween my intent and deed Lay meddling finger on my purpose? Nay, You know me better, madam. On my lords! Delay's the whetstone sharpens best the blades Of enemies.

_Ara._ Go, sir! I am myself. I will not move. If you will tear me hence, And drag your father's daughter at your feet, Then you may take me to the council hall.

_Diony._ Your pleasure, sister. Here we'll hold our court. Go, Clitus, to the steps and turn all hither.

_Ara._ Art thou my brother, Dionysius? Nay! We are of different mothers. Now I know We are of different fathers, too.

_Diony._ You dare! Silence thy slanderous tongue!

_Ara._ I say thou 'rt not My royal father's son!

_Diony._ His sword is mine!

[_Seizes her in a rage, threatening her with his weapon; then slowly releases her and she sinks to bench by pillar of the colonnade. Lords assemble, some talking excitedly but in undertone, others cool and scoffing. Speusippus and friends enter, taking inconspicuous place. Ocrastes keeps in shade, motionless and unnoticed._]

_A lord._ Ha, Calisthenes, you need not come to bite at this bait. 'Tis a dainty morsel and only goldfish are allowed to nibble.

_An old lord._ I mislike this marriage. 'Twill bring us woe, let it reach Dion's ears.

_Another._ Ay, wars beyond our guess will come of it.

_Young lord._ The admiral against �gisthus!

_Second young lord._ Heraclides? He is much wived already.

_Third young lord._ The easier to take another.

_Second young lord._ �gisthus bids most fair. I take you.

_Diony._ My friends, would that I had for each of you So fair a sister, and were not thus forced To choose among you. Who is first to speak?

_Her._ I pray this gift, my lord.

_Diony._ Brave admiral, You would stand high, perhaps the highest with us, Were't not that old wives make new enemies.

_Icetes._ I'm free to give my undivided heart.

_Diony._ But, good Icetes, age is creeping on you. We want a fighting arm as well as heart. Who else? No voice? Must we then hawk her up? Look on her, gentlemen! Even tears may not Disfigure her. This fit of sorrow past You'll see her smile again, those wondrous smiles You've longed in secret to make all your own. A week, a day, will put some spirit in her.

_Ara._ [_Rising_] To you, my lords of Syracuse! Think not To wed the wife of Dion as she stands. You'll pluck no rose in me. This face I'll sere With constant travelling tears, till Beauty here Shall search in vain for memory of herself. My wealth I'll fling upon the air to birds And beggars. Ay, my palace shall take wings! My costly robes I'll cast into the street That common women may adorn themselves. I am no princess. I refuse the name Of aught that makes me sister to that wretch. Go seek some linen washer by a brook And find a wealthier and a prouder wife.

_Diony._ Spoke I not truth, my lords? You see how fast Her spirit grows. Hear her sweet names for me? Now we'll have bidders plenty. Thanks, my sister. She'll sing, my lords, when once she's neatly caged.

_�gisthus._ I beg----

_Callorus._ My lord----

_Diony._ 'Tis fit you both should speak At once, for both alike sit in my favor. �gisthus' lands are broad, but you, Callorus, Have proved a mightier leader in the field, And all in all you do deserve alike. There's none may rank above you.

_Oc._ [_Stepping out_] One, my lord.

_�g._ There's none!

_Callo._ Let him come forth!

_Diony._ Who, sir? His name.

_Oc._ Ocrastes.

_Diony._ You?

_�g._ Ha, ha!

_Oc._ Why not, my lord?

_Diony._ You're Dion's heart. You cast him off?

_Oc._ You ask For proof? I take his wife. Were I to warm My fingers in his blood, I'd have more hope That he would rise and bless me than to keep His love while she lies on my bosom.

_Ara._ O!

_Oc._ I challenge any here to match my claim. This is the sword, my lord, that held the city Against the Tarentines when these brave nobles Trembled behind their fast shut doors.

_�g._ 'Tis false!

_Oc._ All know 'tis true. Since boasting now's a virtue, I'll do it well. Who wore the laurel wreath That saved all Sicily a spreading blush The day the Carthaginian youths were sent Defeated home? You ask for wealth? My vineyards Run to the wilderness. My corn now greens On �tna's slope and yellows by the Gela. My father's coffers are unopened yet, And ships are sailing here will fill my own. My slaves might meet an army, and I'll put A sword in every hand for Syracuse. In rank I bow to none. The blood of Pollis, First king of Syracuse, runs yet in me, And even Dionysius' royal self Yields to my line the birthright courtesy.

_Diony._ Enough. Now Dion's cause falls down. Enough! Come to our heart, Ocrastes! There's not one We'd rather win to us.

_Speu._ [_Aside_] O, Dion, now all Forsake thee but calamity, that like A covetous ill wife hangs on thy fortune!

_Diony._ By Pluto, no more fear! Our throne is safe!

_Oc._ My lord----

_Diony._ Nay, brother!

_Oc._ Pray be warned by one Who knows too well your need. Not all the troops Of broadest Sicily may keep you safe When Dion comes from Greece. Men swarm to him As he were golden Saturn giving off New fortunes with each breath. Send me with speed To Italy. There I have friends shall be Your own, and pour a fleet into your harbor Will turn lord Dion pale when next his eye Scans Syracusan waters.

_Diony._ Italy? We'll think of it. You're the true warrior stuff, Planning campaigns with the same breath you win A royal bride. We like you better for it, But she may like you less. Give her a word.

_Oc._ O, fairest woman that ever made the earth More sweet and beauteous to live upon, You'll find in me a true and gentle lord. These tears I'll teach to run a smiling race And in a happy death forget their birth.

[_Attempts to embrace her_]

_Ara._ Open the prisons, call some convict forth, And I will wed him, but not you! These lords Have hated Dion, have not lived upon His constant kindness. You have drunk his love Like flowing wine, and lived by it!

_Oc._ Rail on, If railing pleases you. In aftertime You'll love the better for it.

_Diony._ Right! Give her leave, And she will stroke you where she meant to strike.

_Ara._ You love Theano!

_Oc._ Ah,--I did, perhaps, A thousand years ago. All now's forgot But that thou mayst be mine.

_Ara._ O, false----

_Oc._ O true! What was scarce fair to unpossessing eyes, Perfection is when gods have made it ours. Thou wilt forgive me that I loved thee not While thou wert Dion's, for my eyes were sealed By loyalty to him. But this divorce That frees thee gives me sight. I see, and love. And by that love still dost thou grow more fair. For is not love a second, truer eye, Finding out beauty where the first could not? No more! We'll plead hereafter. 'Tis an hour To win, not woo. Swords must be burnished, sails Must meet the wind!

_Ara._ Are you Ocrastes? No! O, no! He is the son of Dion's love, And you would wed his wife. He was a poor Forsaken babe, his mighty heritage Plunder for any thief. 'Twas Dion then Became his father, gave him life and wealth, And that sweet breeding that till now did show So fair in him. Ocrastes owes him all----

_Oc._ Ay, all! E'en wisdom. He would call me fool Stayed I from market when thy richest self Courts any passing bid. Since he must lose----

_Ara._ Nay, every touch will be a three-fold shame Robbing a husband, benefactor, friend. My eyes will mirror those reproachful days When Dion's care was fond about us both. His kisses guard my lips. His praise of you Will block your words in my assaulted ears.

_Oc._ You know me not. My words shall be love's fire Burning the track of Dion's pale discourse. My kisses on your lips hold festal war With his till they, poor ghosts, shall flee. And dews Of happiness shall wash all pictures out From your fair eyes but my enthron�d own Which hourly I'll new-set in their fair glass!

_Ara._ I called you brother!... O, my lords, I beg-- Some one of you--to take me for--your--wife.

[_Faints. Ocrastes supports her. Curtain._]