_Oc._ Here? 'Tis a strange declension of his pride. _Ara._ I fear 'tis cover for a thrust 'gainst Dion. _Oc._ No! Virtue such as his is heavened above The reach of sceptres. _Ara._ But he was too bold In his refusal to attend the feast. They come! And Dionysius' brow is like A new, unclouded sun. No eyes for us! [_Enter Dionysius_, _Aristocles_, _Dion_, _and lords_] _Diony._ [_To Aristocles_] Speak on, nor cease t' enchant my rous�d ear, Although thy words, like honey from the isle Where Ate fell, are something mixed with bitter. But give me not to virtue suddenly, Lest she disdain the greening, unripe fruit, And from her sun I do forever fall. _Dion._ Heed then his counsel, Dionysius. A ruler is the state's bountificer,-- High warden at the gates of happy good,-- And when he turns unto himself the stream That should make fair his country, he is damned As oft a robber as his subjects count. Each man he meets may claim his golden coat! _Diony._ What's your rough meaning, sir? _Aris._ 'Tis this, my lord. Here is a land born in a dream of Nature, And given to man to please her waking eyes Until she thinks that yet she dreams. His task To build the adorning temple, turn groves retired To happy shades where wisdom meets with youth, And with triumphant art set statued thought To gleam abroad from every favored spot Till e'en the flattered gods be tempted here In marble fair to wait on mortal eyes, And genius roam in generation free, Breathing the constant good of mind aspiring, Till not a clod, be it or earth or human, But knows a smile to make itself more fair. How should it grieve thee then to see the pomp Of one, sole, only man heave with the weight Of all the state, and wear in barren pride The fertile beauty of his golden isle? _Diony._ Divine Athenian, if I be that man, Be thou the master of my realm till I Have learned what 'tis to be one. Teach me here My first new duty. _Dion._ Check debauching riot That sluices now the palace! Cease these feasts That fume to heaven like Hecate's brewing-vats! Nay, sir, those scowls unwrite your waterish vow. _Aris._ Our Dion means, my lord, that virtue wanes As revels wax; and yet an hour of rest The gods allow us. I myself have trained Young figures for the dance that wreathes with grace The needful, idle hour. _Diony._ You leave us music? _Aris._ Ay, 'tis the angel 'tween the sense and soul, A hand on each, that one may feel the touch Of purest heaven mid rosy revelling, The other catch sweet trembles of a wave That shake her calm till white cheek meets the rose. _Diony._ And feasting, sir?