Well for this earth That Beauty keeps her court for gods not men, Nor clouds for mortal mourning! O, fair city, And fairer night, how strange and cold your smile Upon my heart!... The slave is gone. That means Phillistus comes. [_Phillistus enters opposite and stands in shadow, gazing at Theano_] _Phil._ I've little hope to cheat her more. Her eyes Are at the windows of my heart and read Each dark recess. Well, let love go if 't must. The joys of hate are no less deep,--and she Is mine! [_Approaches_] Theano? I am here. _The._ I see. _Phil._ My day of days has come! One kiss to crown it. Art still unkind? Ah, sweet, where is the smile Should dress thee in a fairer light than gilds The crystal Thetis when Hyperion woos? What! not a kiss. _The._ This statue's sculptured lips Are warmer, sir. _Phil._ To me! _The._ Though on your brow Yon Victory should drop her high-held wreath You'd be no more nor less than now. Who wears The unseen chaplet given of spirit hands To him whose soul is virtue, needeth not Ambition's leafy handful that oft makes The mortal brow vaunt as it grew the trees Of all Olympus. _Phil._ What a welcome here For Sicily's new king! Know, my Theano, That Dionysius is to castle beaten, And treacherous Dion from the city thrust, While Heraclides with me shares the power Soon to be mine alone, for his fall, too, Already is assured. _The._ Then thou hast topped The very summit of thy bold desire. _Phil._ True! Aspiration now, lit like a lark On Fortune's steeple, sings above all hazard. My loved Theano, thou 'rt queen of Syracuse; We'll sleep to-night like happy royalty In honor's bed. _The._ The stone of Sisyphus Will gather moss ere that may be, Phillistus. You gave the safety of your stable house To my bewildered grief. 'Twas noble, sir, Though mine was woe would make a lion sheathe His hungry claws and pass on softest foot. But not for gold or throne will I be yours. Not for all sapphires that have kissed in crowns, All rubies that in deepest caves make day, Would I be wife to you, or take your hand Though to be plucked into Elysium! _Phil._ So? By the fires of Dis, I'll end this play! Dost think me your poor slave to sweat for naught? An ass to bear your pack for chaff and straw? _The._ My lord?