_Dion._ My hope is born again, now you are here. When I have seen pick-thank philosophers At ear of Dionysius, seeding his mind-- Wherein my toil had set fair Ceres' garden-- With foul and flaunting weeds to overrun My country, I have been tempted to forego The idle reaping, uplay the soil itself, And with some few and trusted followers Rouse a new Spring to breed us gracious harvest. _Aris._ But he who strikes at heritage gives riot Fair leave to play above his trampled grave, And rather than usurp a wrong with right, You bend your strength to make the wrong a virtue. _Dion._ Ay, so the young tyrant has my knee, but thus To keep my mind at bow and flexure proves My patience 'fore the gods. Welcome the day When I may honor Truth in honoring The head of rule in my belov�d city! But now no more of state austerities; I would be glad one hour and nurse the joy Of seeing thee. Thou'st brought me half my heart That kept with thee in Athens. [_Enter Brentio_] Well? _Bren._ My lord, The mistress comes. _Dion._ In happy season. _Aris._ Mistress? _Dion._ My wife. _Aris._ Art married, Dion? _Dion._ Since you sailed; To Aratea, Dionysius' sister, But as unlike him as the eternal sky To moody ocean. _Aris._ Married? That the word? _Dion._ Fast bound, indeed, to one who will not break Our souls' knit circle. She is Virtue's servant, And wears her fairest flower, beauty. _Tich._ [_Aside, as Dion looks off left to see if Aratea approaches_] Ha! A beauty! I will warrant it. There be Some ugly wives i' the world but no man married 'em. _Dion._ [_To Brentio_] Come, sir. What entertainment is provided? [_Dion talks aside with slave_] _Aris._ So goes my friend. He who was happiest lost In the vast solitude of a noble book, Or Truth's deep-pathed discourse. A wife. Is this My journey's end? That little haven whence No harbored sail dares sea? Port of delay, And pocket of emprise, whose shallows oft Have sunk the mightiest hope of greatest states! [_Enter a servant_] _Ser._ [_To Dion_] My lord, the captain of the harbor waits. _Dion._ [_To Aristocles_] One moment, friend. [_Exit, right_] _Aris._ That lordly soul a-dream In woman's arms! That heaven-cleaving mind At fireside tattle with a gossip dame! Now comes the sunward ranging eagle down To sit by nest, a tame prudential spouse. Where sped the proud ambassador of morn On wings that clipped the burning orient, Hovers the cautious mate at pains to find A youngling's breakfast.