_Oc._ My love, as nature runs, she must die first. Forgive my rudest tongue--but will you then-- When so she goes--bring all this heart to me? I'm tortured lest her bitter will against me Should reach back from the tomb. _The._ Ah, my beloved, The wounds we give the dead must fall unfelt. Then why should senseless graves wound life? Ay, then-- Unhappy happy then--I'll be all yours. [_Enter Methone, right_] _Meth._ Mistress Theano, your mother is strangely ill. I pray you, come. _The._ O me, my fatal word! _Oc._ Nay, 'twas our watchful star moved me to urge it. Let me go with you, love, and strive once more To win the picket of her bluff regard. _The._ Not now. Wait here until I come again. [_Exit Theano_] _Oc._ The silken bud that holds a treasured world Uncaskets nothing in the hour of bloom, But fans the air with its own waste of leaves. Even so my hope, that with the swelling year Pressed to a summer crown, unfolds on naught And prodigal of self to naught is come. [_Goes into garden. Stars appear in the sky visible beyond columns, rear. Servants come out of the palace and set lights about the court. Enter Aratea and Aristocles from palace, front. They cross to rear and sit between two of the columns_] _Ara._ Aristocles--my Dion's friend and mine-- rest upon your soul and feel encirqued By silent potence, like the quietude Of heaven when gods are still,--when prayers come not, And enters no desire. So strange--this peace. My infant eyes oped on a shaking isle, And I was cradled in my father's wars. O soon, too soon, I knew woe's touch of death! But these are living days--days to be wreathed With memory's stars, and circled new each morn With pearls iridian from regretful eyes That they--such days--can pass. _Aris._ Eternity Looked once upon the world, where lingers yet Some brightness of her eye that we call Time. Can aught so fleet hold value of thy tear? Thou who hast the immortal heritage? _Ara._ I can not say. Your mind in heaven sleeps, And by the day you but recall your dreams; While I, my lord, couch not so gloriously, And from the earth must speak. _Aris._ O, not from earth---- [_Re-enter Ocrastes_] _Ara._ [_To Ocrastes_] Will you not sit with us? _Oc._ Nay, I'll rest here. [_Lies down on one of the long seats_] I know you talk of Dion, and one who loves him Brings no intrusive ear,--or if it is, 'Tis deaf with weariness. _Ara._ [_To Aristocles_] He's tempest-racked Between his love and friend. Ay, me, the world! _Aris._ I'll leave you now. No more of my poor thoughts. You're wearied with long listening. [_Rises_]