_Ara._ [_To Aristocles_] Ah, yes, I know you'll cast fond sighs toward Athens, And in the night look through the dark to her-- A myrtle-crown�d bride without her lord-- But yet our land, too poor in Ceres' smile To outwoo Acad�me, may show some charm To ease your banishment. _Aris._ O, 'tis an isle That 'neath the eye of Zeus might bloom nor blush Save at his praise; yet holds within itself Treasure that ornaments its cruder worth As gems make eyes in stone,--a friend whose hand Leads Virtue's own, and woman's beauty crowned By starry mind as I ne'er hoped to see Till at the port of the immortal world My eyes should meet my dreams. _Dion._ What now? So soon, Aristocles? _Ara._ My lord? _Dion._ I knew she'd find The gate to your forgiveness. _Phil._ [_Aside_] My tongue creaks Amid this piping. _Dion._ True, she's fair enough For praise, but I'm a plain prose lover, friend, Nor, like a doting osier o'er a brook, Pore on her features, wasting oil of time That should burn high in task of gods and state. _Phil._ [_Aside_] I'll cast a pebble in this summer pool. [_To Aristocles_] Sir, you will find our Dionysius worthy, The proud descendant of a prouder sire, Upholding well his shining heritage. _Aris._ Worthy I hope he is, but even kings, My lord, may wrap them in humility, Nor boast descent, when demigods of earth But bastards are in heaven. _Dion._ Ay, some of us Should curvet not so high, bethinking of Our audience in the clouds; for this brave world Is but a theatre whereto the gods For pastime look, and whoso makes most show Of plumes careering and proud-lifting stride Is but the greatest anticker of all To their high eyes. A little music, friends. _Phil._ And in good time! A sermon then a song. [_Enter dancers, the two in advance bearing urns which they place on a small altar, singing_] Bring cedar dark, And ruby-wood, Bring honeyed-bark, The Naiad's food, Till altar flame And incense rise In friendship's name To seek the skies. [_Chorus by maidens bearing wreaths of olive and laurel_] Myrtle leave on Venus' tree, Nor the Bacchic ivy see; Olive bring, and laurel bough. And may hours that gather now Of his years fair token be! [_They bow before Aristocles and continue dancing_] _Aris._ [_Watching Aratea_] The sun has made a shrine of her bright hair Where eyes would worship, but her fairer face Lures their devotion ere they gaze one prayer.