_The._ [_Coming out_] You here, Methone? Attend the lady Nauresta. I fear your pleasure and your duty lie Too far apart. [_Exit Methone, right_] Ocrastes, come! My love! Fair clos�d flowers that wait the royal dawn Ere they will sport with beauty's open face Are as my heart that caseth up its joy To wait thy voice. [_The day darkens to dusk. Theano looks into the garden, suddenly eager_] He's coming! No, he stops To talk with Brentio. How close they whisper! What is 't he gives the slave? For shame, bold eyes, To spy upon a lord so true! What was 't Phillistus said? No matter. It was false. [_She moves aside as Brentio crosses to palace_] _Bren._ [_Jingling coins_] O sweet, sweet gold! Art mine--all mine--my love? And will I do it? Ay! I'd sell my soul To such a brave paymaster. [_Enters palace_] _Oc._ [_Coming on right, not seeing Theano_] Vile, too vile! Let me not think of it. _The._ Ocrastes? _Oc._ Ah, My never-setting star! _The._ But you are troubled. Hast news? _Oc._ Rumors, my girl. They're in the air Like floating poisons. O that Syracuse Had one man in 't! _The._ Look in my eyes and see him. _Oc._ One sword in one right hand! _The._ Here, in my eyes. _Oc._ I see a dallying, damn�d temporizer, Who stops to count the threatening dragon's teeth Ere reaving him of head. _The._ My love, what is it? _Oc._ Still Dion lingers, playing the game of wits In idle Athens, while scandal eats his name---- _The._ Ocrastes! _Oc._ Yes, I said it. _The._ Ah, you mean---- _Oc._ I mean---- _The._ Aristocles. _Oc._ O, Dion, Dion! _The._ Speusippus says he comes. _Oc._ Too late he comes That should be here already. _The._ Dear my love, He is not young as you, and years are cautious. While age makes ready to resent affront The blows of youth are given and forgot. _Oc._ Ah, my Theano, I've but one place of peace-- Nay, I've not that--your pity-housing bosom. Though �olus' thirty sons made centre round me, There should I rest as on a summer cloud Rose-covered by the toil of flying doves To keep off heaven's tears. And you deny it! _The._ My own! _Oc._ You do not love me! _The._ Hear him not, O patient Heaven! _Oc._ Come to me, Theano. _The._ Not while my mother lives to suffer for it.