Lama.
Daughter, thy choice
Is free as air to accept or to reject
This suitor; only, in the name of Cherson,
Do nothing rashly, and meanwhile take care
That nought that fits a Grecian State be wanting
To do him honour.
Gycia.
Sir, it shall be done.
Scene II.—Outside the palace of Lamachus.
Megacles and Courtiers.
Meg. Well, my lords, and so this is the palace. A grand palace, forsooth, and a fine reception to match! Why, these people are worse than barbarians. They are worse than the sea, and that was inhospitable enough. The saints be praised that that is over, at any rate. Oh, the intolerable scent of pitch, and the tossing and the heaving! Heaven spare me such an ordeal again! I thought I should have died of the smells. And here, can it be? Is it possible that there is a distinct odour of—pah! what? Oils, as I am a Christian, and close to the very palace of the Archon! What a detestable people! Some civet, good friends, some civet!
1st Court. Here it is, good Megacles. You did not hope, surely, to find republicans as sweet as those who live cleanly under a King? But here are some of their precious citizens at last.
Enter Citizens hurriedly.
1st Citizen. I pray you, forgive us, gentlemen. We thought the Prince would take the land at the other quay, and had prepared our welcome accordingly.
Meg. Who are these men?
1st Court. They are honourable citizens of Cherson.
Meg. Citizens! They will not do for me. The Count of the Palace should be here with the Grand Chamberlain to meet my Master.
1st Cit. Your Master? Oh! then you are a serving man, as it would seem. Well, my good man, when comes your Master?
Meg. Oh, the impertinent scoundrel! Do you know, sir, who I am?
1st Cit. Probably the Prince's attendant, his lackey, or possibly his steward. I neither know nor care.
Meg. Oh, you barbarian! Where is the Count of the Palace, I say?
1st Cit. Now, citizen, cease this nonsense. We have not, thank Heaven, any such foolish effeminate functionary.
Meg. No Count of the Palace? Heavens! what a crew! Well, if there is none, where are your leading nobles? where the Respectable and Illustrious? You are certainly not Illustrious nor Respectable; you probably are not even Honourable, or if you are you don't look it.
1st Cit. What, you wretched popinjay of a serving man! You dare address a Greek citizen in that way? Take that, and that!
[Beats him.
1st Court. Draw, gentlemen! These are ruffians!
[They fight.
Enter Asander.
Asan. Put up your swords, gentlemen. Why, fellows, what is this? Is this your hospitality to your guests?
1st Cit. Nay, sir; but this servant of yours has been most insolent, and has abused and insulted our State and its manners. He told us that we were not men of honour; and some of us, sir, are young, and have hot blood, and, as Greek citizens of Cherson, will not bear insults.
Asan. Insolent upstarts, you are not worthy of our swords! Come, my Lord Megacles, heed them not. Here is their master.
Enter Lamachus and Senators.
Lama. We bid you heartfelt welcome, Prince, to Cherson.
That we have seemed to fail to do you honour
Comes of the spite of fortune. For your highness,
Taking the land at the entrance of the port,
Missed what of scanty pomp our homely manners
Would fain have offered; but we pray you think
'Twas an untoward accident, no more.
Welcome to Cherson, Prince!
Asan.
Methinks, my lord,
Scarce in the meanest State is it the custom
To ask the presence of a noble guest
With much insistance, and when he accepts
The summons, and has come, to set on him
With insolent dogs like these.
Lama.
Nay, Prince, I pray you,
What is it that has been?
Asan.
Our chamberlain
Was lately, in your absence, which your highness
So glibly doth excuse, set on and beaten
By these dogs here.
Lama.
Nay, sir, they are not dogs,
But citizens of honour; yet indeed
Wanting, I fear, in that deep courtesy
Which from a stranger and a guest refuses
To take provoked offence. My lord, indeed
I am ashamed that citizens of Cherson
Should act so mean a part. Come, Prince, I pray you
Forget this matter, and be sure your coming
Fills me with joy. Go, tell the Lady Gycia
The Prince is safe in Cherson.
Meg. My Lord Asander, remember what is due to yourself and Bosphorus. Remember, when this merchant's daughter comes, you must not treat her as an equal. Courtesy to a woman is all very well, but rank has greater claims still, especially when you have to deal with such people as these. Now, remember, you must make no obeisance at all; and if you advance to meet her more—(Enter Gycia, Irene, Melissa, and Ladies. Irene, seeing Asander, faints, and is withdrawn, Gycia supporting her. Confusion.)—than one step, you are lost for ever. These are the truly important things.
Asan.
Good Megacles,
Forewarned I am forearmed.
(Aside) Thou fluent trickster!
Fit head of such a State! I would to Heaven
I had never come!
Re-enter Gycia.
Nay, nay, I thank the saints
That I have come. Who is this peerless creature?
Is this the old man's daughter?
Lama.
Prince Asander,
This is my daughter, Gycia. Of the prince
Thou hast heard many a time, my daughter.
Gycia (confused).
Ay!—
Indeed I——
Lama.
Come, my girl, thou art not used
To fail of words.
Asan. Nay, sir, I pray you press her not to speak.
And yet I fain would hear her. Artemis
Showed not so fair, nor with a softer charm
Came Hebe's voice.
Gycia.
Nay, sir, I did not know
A soldier could thus use a courtier's tongue.
Asan. If being bred in courts would give me power
To put my thought in words, then would I fain
Be courtier for thy sake.
Gycia.
Ah, sir, you jest.
The ways of courts we know not, but I bid thee
Good welcome to our city, and I prithee
Command whatever service our poor Cherson
Can give whilst thou art here. (To Megacles) Pray you, my lord,
Accompany his Highness and our household
To the apartments which our serving men
Have now prepared. They are but poor, I know,
For one who lives the stately life of kings;
But such as our poor means can reach they are.
Meg. My lady, I have lived long time in courts,
But never, in the palaces of Rome,
Have I seen beauty such as yours, or grace
More worthy of a crown. (To Melissa) To you, my lady,
I bow with most respectful homage. Surely
The goddess Heré has not left the earth
While you are here, I humbly take my leave
For the present of your Highness with a thousand
Obeisances, and to your gracious father
Humbly I bend the knee. My Lord Asander,
I do attend your Highness.
Mel.
What a man!
What noble manners! What a polished air!
How poor to such a courtier our rude Court
And humble manners show!
Asan.
Good Megacles,
Get me to my chamber—quick, ere I o'erpass
All reasonable limits. I am sped;
I am myself no more.
Lama.
Farewell awhile.
We will welcome you at supper.
[Exeunt all but Lamachus and Gycia.
Lama.
Well, my daughter,
What think you of this hot-brained youth? I' faith,
I like his soldier's bluntness, and he seemed
To be a little startled, as I thought,
By something which he saw when thou didst come.
Perchance it was the charm of one who came
Among thy ladies took him.
Gycia.
Nay, my father,
I think not so indeed.
Lama.
Ah! well, I am old,
And age forgets. But this I tell thee, daughter:
If in my youth I had seen a young man's gaze
Grow troubled, and he should start, and his cheek pale,
A young girl drawing near, I had almost thought
Him suddenly in love.
Gycia.
Oh, nay indeed!
Who should be favoured thus? There is no woman
In our poor Cherson worthy that his gaze
Might rest on her a moment.
Lama.
Ah, my girl,
Is it thus with thee? They say that love is blind,
And thou art blind, therefore it may be, Gycia,
That thou too art in love. Tell me how it is.
Couldst thou love this man, if he loved thee?
Gycia (throwing herself on her father's neck). Father!
Lama. Say no more, girl. I am not so old as yet
That I have quite forgotten my own youth,
When I was young and loved; and if I err not,
I read love's fluttering signals on thy cheek,
And in his tell-tale eyes. But listen! Music!
We must prepare for supper with our guests.
Scene III.—A street in Cherson.
Megacles; afterwards Melissa.
Megacles. Well, it is time for the banquet. Somehow, this place improves on acquaintance, after all. Poor, of course, and rude to a degree. But truly the Lady Gycia is fair—as fair, indeed, as if she was the Emperor's daughter. She is a beautiful creature, truly. But give me that delightful lady-in-waiting of hers, the Lady Melissa. What grace! what rounded proportions! I like mature beauty. She is as like the late divine Empress as two peas, and I thought—I dare say I was wrong, but I really thought—I made an impression. Poor things! poor things! They can't help themselves. We courtiers really ought to be very careful not to abuse our power. It is positive cruelty. The contest is too unequal. It makes one inclined sometimes to put on the manners of a clown, so as to give them a chance. Nay, nay, you might as well ask the Ethiopian to change his skin as a courtier his fine manners. By all the saints! here she comes in propriâ personâ.
Enter the Lady Melissa.
Mel. Heavens! it is the strange nobleman. I am sure I am all of a flutter.
Meg. (advancing with formal bows). My lady, I am enchanted (bows again; then takes several steps to the right, then to the left, and bows). What a wonderful good fortune! Ever since I had the honour to see you just now, I have only lived in the hope of seeing you again.
Mel. (curtsying). Oh, my lord, you great courtiers can find little to interest you in our poor little Court and its humble surroundings.
Meg. Madam, I beg! not a word! I was just thinking that you exactly resembled the late divine Empress.
Mel. Oh, my lord, forbear! The Empress! and I have never been out of Cherson! You flatter me, you flatter me, indeed. That is the way with all you courtiers from Constantinople. Now, if you had said that my Lady Gycia was beautiful——
Meg. My dear lady, I do not admire her in the least. She has no manners, really—nothing, at any rate, to attract a man of the great world; a mere undeveloped girl, with all the passion to come. No, no, my good lady, give me a woman who has lived. We courtiers know manners and breeding when we see them, and yours are simply perfect, not to say Imperial.
Mel. What a magnificent nature! Well, to say the truth, the Lady Gycia is not at all to my taste. It is a cold, insipid style of beauty, at the best; and she is as self-willed and as straitlaced as a lady abbess. I suppose she is well matched with the Prince Asander?
Meg. Well, he is a handsome lad enough, and virtuous, but weak, as youth always is, and pliable. Now, for myself, I am happy to say I am steadfast and firm as a rock.
Mel. Ah, my lord, if all women saw with my eyes, there would not be such a run after youth. Give me a mature man, who has seen the world and knows something of life and manners.
Meg. What an intelligent creature! Madam, your sentiments do you credit. I beg leave to lay at your feet the assurance of my entire devotion.
Mel. Oh, my lord, you are too good! Why, what a dear, condescending creature!—the manners of a Grand Chamberlain and the features of an Apollo!
Meg. Permit me to enrol myself among the ranks of your humble slaves and admirers (kneels and kisses her hand). But hark! the music, and I must marshal the guests to the banquet. Permit me to marshal you.
[Exeunt with measured steps.
Scene IV.—The garden without the banqueting-room. Moonlight. The sea in the distance, with the harbour.
Asander and Gycia descend the steps of the palace slowly together. Music heard from within the hall.
Asan. Come, Gycia, let us take the soft sweet air
Beneath the star of love. The festive lights
Still burn within the hall, where late we twain
Troth-plighted sate, and I from out thine eyes
Drank long, deep draughts of love stronger than wine.
And still the minstrels sound their dulcet strains,
Which then I heard not, since my ears were filled
With the sweet music of thy voice. My sweet,
How blest it is, left thus alone with love,
To hear the love-lorn nightingales complain
Beneath the star-gemmed heavens, and drink cool airs
Fresh from the summer sea! There sleeps the main
Which once I crossed unwilling. Was it years since,
In some old vanished life, or yesterday?
When saw I last my father and the shores
Of Bosphorus? Was it days since, or years,
Tell me, thou fair enchantress, who hast wove
So strong a spell around me?
Gycia.
Nay, my lord;
Tell thou me first what magic 'tis hath turned
A woman who had scoffed so long at love
Until to-day—to-day, whose blessed night
Is hung so thick with stars—to feel as I,
That I have found the twin life which the gods
Retained when mine was fashioned, and must turn
To what so late was strange, as the flower turns
To the sun; ay, though he withers her, or clouds
Come 'twixt her and her light, turns still to him.
And only gazing lives.
Asan.
Thou perfect woman!
And art thou, then, all mine? What have I done,
What have I been, that thus the favouring gods
And the consentient strength of hostile States
Conspire to make me happy? Ah! I fear,
Lest too great happiness be but a snare
Set for our feet by Fate, to take us fast
And then despoil our lives.
Gycia.
My love, fear not.
We have found each other, and no power has strength
To put our lives asunder.
Asan.
Thus I seal
Our contract with a kiss.
[Kisses her.
Gycia.
Oh, happiness!
To love and to be loved! And yet methinks
Love is not always thus. To some he brings
Deep disappointment only, and the pain
Of melancholy years. I have a lady
Who loves, but is unloved. Poor soul! she lives
A weary life. Some youth of Bosphorus
Stole her poor heart.
Asan.
Of Bosphorus saidst thou?
And her name is?
Gycia.
Irene. Didst thou know her?
Asan. Nay, love, or if I did I have forgot her.
Gycia. Poor soul! to-day when first we met, she saw
Her lover 'midst thy train and swooned away.
Asan. Poor heart! This shall be seen to. Tell me, Gycia,
Didst love me at first sight?
Gycia.
Unreasonable,
To bid me tell what well thou knowest already.
Thou know'st I did. And when did love take thee?
Asan. I was wrapt up in spleen and haughty pride,
When, looking up, a great contentment took me,
Shed from thy gracious eyes. Nought else I saw,
Than thy dear self.
Gycia. And hadst thou ever loved?
Asan.
Never, dear Gycia.
I have been so rapt in warlike enterprises
Or in the nimble chase, all my youth long,
That never had I looked upon a woman
With thought of love before, though it may be
That some had thought of me, being a Prince
And heir of Bosphorus.
Gycia.
Not for thyself;
That could not be. Deceiver!
Asan.
Nay, indeed!
Gycia. Oh, thou dear youth!
Asan.
I weary for the day
When we our mutual love shall crown with marriage.
Gycia. Not yet, my love, we are so happy now.
Asan. But happier then, dear Gycia.
Gycia.
Nay, I know not
If I could bear it and live. But hark, my love!
The music ceases, and the sated guests
Will soon be sped. Thou must resume thy place
Of honour for a little. I must go,
If my reluctant feet will bear me hence,
To dream of thee the livelong night. Farewell,
Farewell till morning. All the saints of heaven
Have thee in keeping!
Asan.
Go not yet, my sweet;
And yet I bid thee go. Upon thy lips
I set love's seal, thus, thus.
[Kisses her. They embrace.
Good night!
Gycia.
Good night!
[Exit Gycia.
Enter Irene unperceived.
Asan. Ah, sweetest, best of women! paragon
Of all thy sex, since first thy ancestress
Helen, the curse of cities and of men,
Marshalled the hosts of Greece! But she brought discord;
Thou, by thy all-compelling sweetness, peace
And harmony for strife. What have I done,
I a rough soldier, like a thousand others
Upon our widespread plains, to have won this flower
Of womanhood—this jewel for the front
Of knightly pride to wear, and, wearing it,
Let all things else go by? To think that I,
Fool that I was, only a few hours since,
Bemoaned the lot which brought me here and bade me
Leave my own land, which now sinks fathoms deep
Beyond my memory's depths, and scarce would deign
To obey thee, best of fathers, when thy wisdom
Designed to make me blest! Was ever woman
So gracious and so comely? And I scorned her
For her Greek blood and love of liberty!
Fool! purblind fool! there is no other like her;
I glory being her slave.
Irene. I pray you, pardon me, my Lord Asander.
I seek the Lady Gycia; is she here?
Asan. No, madam; she has gone, and with her taken
The glory of the night. But thou dost love her—
Is it not so, fair lady?
Ire.
Ay, my lord,
For we have lived together all our lives;
I could not choose but love.
Asan.
Well said indeed.
Tell me, and have I seen thy face before?
A something in it haunts me.
Ire.
Ay, my lord.
Am I forgot so soon?
Asan.
Indeed! Thy name?
Where have I seen thee?
Ire.
Where? Dost thou, then, ask?
Ire.
Thou mayest well forget
My name, if thou hast quite forgot its owner.
[Weeps.
I am called Irene.
Asan.
Strange! the very name
My lady did relate to me as hers
Who bears a hopeless love. Weep not, good lady;
Take comfort. Heaven is kind.
Ire.
Nay, my good lord,
What comfort? He I love loves not again,
Or not me, but another.
Asan.
Ah, poor lady!
I pity you indeed, now I have known
True recompense of love.
Ire.
Dost thou say pity?
And pity as they tell's akin to love.
What comfort is for me, my Lord Asander,
Who love one so exalted in estate
That all return of honourable love
Were hopeless, as if I should dare to raise
My eyes to Cæsar's self? What comfort have I,
If lately I have heard this man I love
Communing with his soul, when none seemed near,
Betray a heart flung prostrate at the feet
Of another, not myself; and well I know
Not Lethe's waters can wash out remembrance
Of that o'ermastering passion—naught but death
Or hopeless depths of crime?
Asan.
Lady, I pity
Thy case, and pray thy love may meet return.
Ire. Then wilt thou be the suppliant to thyself,
And willing love's requital, Oh, requite it!
Thou art my love, Asander—thou, none other,
There is naught I would not face, if I might win thee.
That I a woman should lay bare my soul;
Disclose the virgin secrets of my heart
To one who loves me not, and doth despise
The service I would tender!
Asan.
Cease, I pray you;
These are distempered words.
Ire.
Nay, they are true.
And come from the inner heart. Leave these strange shores
And her you love. I know her from a child.
She is too high and cold for mortal love;
Too wrapt in duty, and high thoughts of State,
Artemis and Athené fused in one,
Ever to throw her life and maiden shame
As I do at thy feet.
[Kneels.
Asan.
Rise, lady, rise;
I am not worthy such devotion.
Ire.
Take me
Over seas; I care not where. I'll be thy slave,
Thy sea-boy; follow thee, ill-housed, disguised,
Through hardship and through peril, so I see
Thy face sometimes, and hear sometimes thy voice,
For I am sick with love.
Asan.
Lady, I prithee
Forget these wild words. I were less than man
Should I remember them, or take the gift
Which 'tis not reason offers. I knew not
Thy passion nor its object, nor am free
To take it, for the vision of my soul
Has looked upon its sun, and turns no more
To any lower light.
Ire.
My Lord Asander,
She is not for thee; she cannot make thee happy,
Nor thou her. Oh, believe me! I am full
Of boding thoughts of the sure fatal day
Which shall dissolve in blood the bonds which love
To-day has plighted. If thou wilt not take me,
Then get thee gone alone. I see a fire
Which burns more fierce than love, and it consumes thee.
Fly with me, or alone, but fly.
Asan.
Irene,
Passion distracts thy brain. I pray you, seek
Some mutual love as I. My heart is fixed,
And gone beyond recall.
[Exit.
Enter Theodorus unseen.
Ire. (weeping passionately). Disgraced! betrayed!
Rejected! All the madness of my love
Flung back upon me, as one spurns a gift
Who scorns the giver. That I love him still,
And cannot hate her who has robbed me of him!
I shall go mad with shame!
Theo.
Great Heaven! sister,
What words are these I hear? My father's daughter
Confessing to her shame!
[Irene weeps.
Come, tell me, woman;
I am thy brother and protector, tell me
What mean these words?
Ire.
Nay, nay, I cannot, brother.
They mean not what they seem, indeed they do not.
Theo. They mean not what they seem! Thou hast been long
In Bosphorus, and ofttimes at the Court
Hast seen the Prince. When he to-day comes hither,
Thou swoonest at the sight. I, seeking thee,
Find thee at night alone, he having left thee,
Lamenting for thy shame. Wouldst have me credit
Thy innocence? Speak, if thou hast a word
To balance proofs like these, or let thy silence
Condemn thee.
Ire. (after a pause, and slowly, as if calculating consequences). Then do I keep silence, brother,
And let thy vengeance fall.
Theo.
Oh, long-dead mother,
Who now art with the saints, shut fast thy ears
Against thy daughter's shame! These are the things
That make it pain to live: all precious gifts,
Honour, observance, virtue, flung away
For one o'ermastering passion. Why are we
Above the brute so far, if we keep still
The weakness of the brute? Go from my sight,
Thou vile, degraded wretch. For him whose craft
And wickedness has wronged thee, this I swear—
I will kill him, if I can, or he shall me.
I will call on him to draw, and make my sword
Red with a villain's blood.
Ire. (eagerly).
Nay, nay, my brother,
That would proclaim my shame; and shouldst thou slay him,
Thou wouldst break thy lady's heart.
Theo.
Doth she so love him?
Ire. Ay, passionately, brother.
Theo.
Oh, just Heaven!
And oh, confusèd world!
How are we fettered here! I may not kill
A villain who has done my sister wrong,
Since she I love has given her heart to him,
And hangs upon his life. I would not pain
My Gycia with the smallest, feeblest pang
That wrings a childish heart, for all the world.
How, then, to kill her love, though killing him
Would rid the world of a villain, and would leave
My lady free to love? 'Twere not love's part
To pain her thus, not for the wealth and power
Of all the world heaped up. I tell thee, sister,
Thy paramour is safe—I will not seek
To do him hurt; but thou shalt go to-night
To my Bithynian castle. Haply thence,
After long penances and recluse days,
Thou mayst return, and I may bear once more
To see my sister's face.
Ire.
Farewell, my brother!
I do obey; I bide occasion, waiting
For what the years may bring.
Theo.
Repent thy sin.
END OF ACT II.
ACT III.
Scene I.—Cherson, two years after. The palace of Lamachus.
Asander and Gycia.
Gycia. What day is this, Asander? Canst thou tell me?
Asan. Not I, my love. All days are now alike;
The weeks fleet by, the days equivalent gems
Strung on a golden thread.
Gycia.
Thou careless darling!
I did not ask thee of the calendar.
Dost think a merchant's daughter knows not that?
Nay, nay; I only asked thee if thou knewest
If aught upon this day had ever brought
Some great change to thee.
Asan.
Sweetest, dearest wife,
Our marriage! Thinkest thou I should forget,
Ay, though the chills of age had froze my brain,
That day of all my life?
Gycia.
Dost thou regret it?
I think thou dost not, but 'tis sweet to hear
The avowal from thy lips?
Asan.
Nay, never a moment.
And thou?
Gycia.
Nay, never for a passing thought.
I did not know what life was till I knew thee.
Dost thou remember it, how I came forth,
Looking incuriously to see the stranger,
And lo! I spied my love, and could not murmur
A word of courtesy?
Asan.
Dost thou remember
How I, a feverish and hot-brained youth,
Full of rash pride and princely arrogance,
Lifted my eyes and saw a goddess coming——
Gycia. Nay, a weak woman only.
Asan.
And was tamed
By the first glance?
Gycia.
What! are we lovers still,
After two years of marriage?
Asan.
Is it two years,
Or twenty? By my faith, I know not which,
For happy lives glide on like seaward streams
Which keep their peaceful and unruffled course
So smoothly that the voyager hardly notes
The progress of the tide. Ay, two years 'tis,
And now it seems a day, now twenty years,
But always, always happy.
[Embraces Gycia.
Asan.
Ay, he had reaped
The harvest of his days, and fell asleep
Amid the garnered sheaves.
Gycia.
Dearest, I know
He loved thee as a son, and always strove
To fit thee for the place within our State
Which one day should be thine. Sometimes I think,
Since he has gone, I have been covetous
Of thy dear love, and kept thee from the labour
Of State-craft, and the daily manly toils
Which do befit thy age; and I have thought,
Viewing thee with the jealous eyes of love,
That I have marked some shade of melancholy
Creep on when none else saw thee, and desired
If only I might share it.
Asan.
Nay, my love,
I have been happy truly, though sometimes,
It may be, I have missed the clear, brisk air
Of the free plains; the trumpet-notes of war,
When far against the sky the glint of spears
Lit by the rising sun revealed the ranks
Of the opposing host, the thundering onset
Of fierce conflicting squadrons, and the advance
Of the victorious hosts. Oh for the vigour
And freshness of such life! But I have chosen
To sleep on beds of down, as Cæsar might,
And live a woman's minion.
Gycia.
Good my husband,
Thou shouldst not speak thus. I would have thee win
Thy place in the Senate, rule our Cherson's fortunes,
Be what my father was without the name,
And gain that too in time.
Asan.
What! You would have me
Cozen, intrigue, and cheat, and play the huckster,
As your republicans, peace on their lips
And subtle scheming treaties, till the moment
When it is safe to spring? Would you have me cringe
To the ignorant mob of churls, through whose sweet voices
The road to greatness lies? Nay, nay; I am
A King's son, and of Bosphorus, not Cherson—
A Scythian more than Greek.
Gycia.
Nay, my good lord,
Scythian or Greek, to me thou art more dear
Than all the world beside. Yet will not duty,
The memory of the dead, the love of country,
The pride of the great race from which we spring,
Suffer my silence wholly, hearing thee.
It is not true that men Athenian-born
Are of less courage, less of noble nature,
More crafty in design, less frank of purpose,
Than are thy countrymen. They have met and fought them,
Thou knowest with what fate. For polity
I hold it better that self-governed men
Should, using freedom, but eschewing license,
Fare to what chequered fate the will of Heaven
Reserves for them, than shackled by the chains
The wisest tyrant, gilding servitude
With seeming gains, imposes. We are free
In speech, in council, in debate, in act,
As when our great Demosthenes hurled back
Defiance to the tyrant. Nay, my lord,
Forgive my open speech. I have not forgot
That we are one in heart and mind and soul,
Knit in sweet bonds for ever. Put from thee
This jaundiced humour.
If State-craft please not, by the headlong chase
Which once I know thou lovedst. Do not grudge
To leave me; for to-day my bosom friend,
After two years of absence, comes to me.
I shall not feel alone, having Irene.
Asan. Whom dost thou say? Irene?
Gycia.
Yes, the same
She was crossed in love, poor girl, dost thou remember,
When we were wed?
Asan.
Gycia, I mind it well.
Send her away—she is no companion for thee;
She is not fit, I say.
Gycia.
What is't thou sayest?
Thou canst know nought of her. Nay, I remember,
When I did ask thee if thou knewest her
At Bosphorus, thou answeredst that thou didst not.
Asan. I know her. She is no fit mate for thee.