_Phil._ [_Crossing to Aristocles_] Aristocles, I swear yon dancer's foot, Curving the air, marks beauty of more worth Than all the fantasies of dream you write On heavens conjectural. _Dion._ [_Angrily to Phillistus_] It suits you well To treat the theme deific with bold tongue. No thought so high but you would trick it out In shrugging sophistry! _Phil._ [_Going_] Farewell. The court Has always welcome for me. _Dion._ Farewell, my lord. And Ceres send you grace! _Phil._ [_Turning_] Beware, proud Dion! The topmost limb makes an uneasy seat. Who perches there must take account of winds, Lest dignity go forfeit to surprise. By Jaso, sir, your cause is fallen sick, Nor Athens emptying all her wits may heal it! [_Exit_] _Ara._ My lord, a little patience---- _Dion._ Patience, madam! Would words were meat for swords! I'd had his crop! [_Enter a royal messenger_] _Mess._ Most noble Dion, greeting from the king. He begs you'll bring the Athenian sage to banquet, And see some shows within the royal gardens. _Dion._ More revels! More? This cracks the very glass Of our fair prospect, wherein we saw him sit With listening ear to wisdom. [_To messenger_] No! _Ara._ My lord---- _Dion._ Say to the tyrant I'll not feast with him. [_Exit messenger_] _Ara._ May I be bold to say this is not well? I fear, my lord, your stern, imperious port Is much against you in our easeful city. If on occasion you would smooth your brow To patient lenience you in time would win All hearts to wear the livery of your purpose, That now shows cold and sober for their mood. _Dion._ Not so! The bending tree ne'er kissed the clouds. I will not stoop! What? Flaunt his sport before A sage's eye, who comes at his own suit To teach him truth? _Aris._ Yet we must not forget Discourteous truth is hated; vehemence, The whip of argument, but frights conviction. Pardon so stale a word. _Ara._ But 'tis so true! The winding zephyr, not the hurrying gale, Finds out the hidden rose. My brother's heart Has yet a grain of good, which gentleness May find and touch to life. _Dion._ It was the slight, The unseemly slight to you, Aristocles, So chafed me. _Aris._ Think but of our charge, my friend, Fair Syracuse. _Dion._ So, so! I say no more. Your wisdom be to me Athene's shield Whereby I'll see to strike this head of wrong Nor be devoured. Come, we will walk abroad. But not to court.