_Oc._ Ho, mistress Dion, you too would like to spin Your cobwebs round the moon! [_To Aristocles_] Get you to Athens, While you may say to Dion she is true! [_Aristocles tries to speak_] O, ay, I know what you would say, my lord. You would not love Aurora though she dropped Her morning mantle at your feet and blushed Herself revestured. No! But Aratea! She has a human heart,--eyes that can fill With tears,--soft hands that love the thing they touch,-- A body that might be the ivory cup Delight doth use to dip and measure out The rose-flood of her pleasure. Go, I say! Take to the sea, and leave no track my sword May follow. [_Rushes into garden_] _Ara._ Sir, forgive his madness! Ah, He is distracted by these wrongs to Dion. I have not told you, friend, that Dionysius To-day seized all possessions of my lord, And stopped all moneys to him. In this deed Ocrastes reads the preface to new woes, Which shakes his mind's security and gives A living color to his fantasies. [_Aristocles stands gazing out, not showing his face_] But Heaven and I know your white soul, my lord---- [_Enter Callorus, from palace, larger entrance, with guards_] _Callo._ Your pardon, worthy sage and fairest lady. I come from Dionysius, whose care Has bared a plot against Aristocles, Whom he for safety bids repair at once To the castle fort, where he must rest to-night In sure protection of the royal guards. _Ara._ The guards? The royal guards? _Callo._ You will make haste, My lord? Before the people move against you. Hearing that Dion has set sail with troops To level Syracuse, they think 'tis by Your aid and counsel. Pray you, lose no time. _Aris._ I'll go with you, Callorus. Not from fear, But to keep riot down that else might shake The city's peace. [_To Aratea_] Farewell. [_Exeunt Aristocles, Callorus and guards, by street_] _Ara._ Farewell? I could not speak. The tyrant's guards! They hate Aristocles. My fears have now a shape and short will show Their foulest face. I must take means at once To learn the truth. My careful Dionysius, I will be vigilant too. [_Turns to go in. Picks up a bit of paper_] 'Tis what he wrote And said 'twas nothing. O,--a pretty rhyme! [_Reads_] _Thine eyes are on the stars, my Star! Would I might be That heaven far With thousand eyes on thee!_ He is a poet. Ay, 'tis but a rhyme. And yet--'tis very pretty--I will keep it. [_Re-enter Ocrastes from garden. He approaches Aratea as if he would speak, but she hurries into palace, entrance front, without seeing him. He retires in gloom_ _as Dionysius and a train of lords come out of palace, large entrance, rear_]