_Phil._ [_Detaining Heraclides_] A word with you, my lord. [_Dionysius and attendants enter palace_] _Her._ What's urgent, friend? _Phil._ Marked you Speusippus? _Her._ Ay. _Phil._ He comes to stir a war in Dion's name. Already there's a rumbling 'mong the people That warns us to be swift. _Her._ My fears have caught it. _Phil._ The tyrant's mood is ripe. See how he loves And hates Aristocles? This is the hour To move him to the Athenian's death. _Her._ You're right. When friendship oars 'tween choler and regard, A crafty hand may steer which wish�d way Sets wind of secret business, and he That rides be none the wiser. _Phil._ The Athenian Removed, then Dionysius is our own. _Her._ Well have short need of him. The tyrant's guards Are envious of the Greek to murder's pitch, Because he counsels Dionysius To cast them off and rule by love alone. The captain stands our friend, his sword aloft To fall as turns the hair. _Phil._ The guards must do 't. The people hold them privileged in humors, And say not yea or nay to them. But does Callorus join us? _Her._ He yet hesitates. _Phil._ Then cease your suasion and to his easy state Clap screws will cramp. Pain is the orator Can clinch his case and drive the question home. _Her._ You'll to �gisthus? _Phil._ Ay, though we've a difference. A trifle that his vanity may stand on. _Her._ Make your excuse, but study how you do it. Faults oft are none till clapped conspicuous With an apology. _Phil._ I've learned of you. None has a tongue more apt to come at love 'Neath what ill cover hides it. Dionysius I leave to you. My name use as 'twere yours. My sum of wisdom is to know your own And trust you wholly. _Her._ That you may, Phillistus. My fame rests on this move. [_Exit_] _Phil._ Your fame, good sir, Has naught to do with what I close intend. By Victory's wings, I'll reach the top of power, Or from her golden ball knock Fortune's foot And steer her course myself! Now to Nauresta. [_Goes into palace, front entrance. Brentio, Tichus and Methone enter merrily from garden. Brentio carries a large harp. They sit on benches left_] _Bren._ These are merry days since Dionysius brought us to the palace. I would weep for my poor banished master, for they say a far country makes a weary foot, but there's so much laughing matter here--the singing and the rhyming, and the pretty wenches tripping your eyes up at every corner, that my tears are no more out than I've good reason to whip them in again.