[_Re-enter Dion_] _Dion._ Come, my friend. You're skilled In harbor matters, and I need your word. [_Exeunt Dion and Aristocles, right_] _Bren._ Is your wise man married? _Tich._ That's a fool's question. _Bren._ True, but--Peace! Yonder comes the mistress. I must be off. "Entertainment," quoth my lord. Which means a gentle sally of honest nymphs, and a sort of mild, virtuous music at hide-and-seek in the vineyard. You must to court if you would know how wenches can trip in Sicily. Come, brother stranger. I'll take care o' your enjoyments. You shall see us with both eyes, I promise you. [_Exeunt Brentio and Tichus._ _Enter_, _left_, _Aratea_, _Theano_, _Nauresta_, _Ocrastes and Phillistus_] _Ara._ I'm not convinced, Phillistus. Who may search The wreckage 'neath a smile, or count the tears Deep in a stoic eye? Let us believe Aristocles is not in nature cold As his philosophy. _Oc._ I'll freeze my sword A winter night, then warm his heart by 't. Cold! _The._ You've seen him? _Oc._ At the landing. _The._ Now we hear! What is this marvel like? _Oc._ A frozen god. Apollo cast in snow. _Phil._ Sicilian suns Are warm. _Oc._ He's proof 'gainst sun. Why, he doth cool His liver with his blood,--hath not a stir Of whetted sense, be 't anger, love or pain, To prick him mortal. _Ara._ He is young to be So true a sage. _The._ They come. Prepare, O eyes, To wonder! [_Re-enter Dion and Aristocles_] _Ara._ [_Advancing_] Welcome, noble Athenian. Your fame has oft made voyage to our shore, And we rejoice that now you follow it. Please know my friends. _Dion._ [_To Aratea, as Aristocles greets the others_] Why is Phillistus here? Are we so poor, my dame, the enemy Must sauce our feast? Nay, nay! _Ara._ I hope, my lord, My brother's subjects are not enemies. _Phil._ [_Who has stood apart, approaches Aristocles_] Welcome to Sicily, although your breath is somewhat frosty for our warmer pleasures. _Ara._ [_As Dion frowns_] The frost that draws the poison, saves the flower, you mean, my good Phillistus. _Aris._ A fair interpreter! _Phil._ Ay, when we know not our meaning, let a woman find it. _Oc._ Which she will do the more readily if we mean nothing. _The._ True, her wit is generous. She'll always bait a hook that angles painfully. _Oc._ Though she, good soul, must hang herself upon it. [_Theano and Ocrastes move aside, bantering. Aratea turns to Phillistus and Nauresta_]