_Speu._ By Hector's spur, It pricks to think this valor-breasted night, Bristling with action's pikes toward charging death, Should e'er beg life of tolerant memory, Thankful for so much breath as may endow A musty adage in the mouth of peace, Or shepherd song piped by an idle rill To meek-eared violets in noonday shade! O! O! my lady Fame must have her nap. Soft, Mars, put on thy slippers! [_Enter soldiers dragging Heraclides_] _Dion._ Who is this? _First soldier._ My lord, a prisoner. _Second sol._ 'Tis Heraclides, My lord. _Voices._ Death! Death to Dion's enemy! _Dion._ What? Heraclides? _Pan._ Ay! [_Drawing his sword_] The blow is mine! _Dion._ Put up your sword, brave Panthus. Nay, put up! _Pan._ [_Dropping weapon_] 'Twere better used, sir. _Dion._ Heraclides, speak. What would you say? Do you repent this night? _Her._ All men, my lord, repent the step that brings Their cloud-high foreheads to earth. I lie so low That Fortune's sun-bent eye will find no more My sunken ruin,--and but one comfort left, I can descend no further. _Pan._ Ay, to hell! _Her._ Ambition knows no hell but failure. Strike! You put me out of torture, not send me to it. _Dion._ Life only dreams her hells till death's be found. _Her._ 'Tis easy thus to speak from victory's height Whence all looks fair,--so fair misfortune seems Sole lie o' the world. We bite truth with the dust, My lord. _Voices._ His sentence! Death! The traitor! Death! _Dion._ Peace, friends. _Voices._ Death! Seize him! Kill him! _Cal._ Dion speaks! _Voices._ Hear Dion! _Dion._ Not alone in martial venture Do victors win their bays. Let each of us, Trampling on anger and contending malice That from our natures thrust out serpent heads, Forgive this captive foe, and crown our brows With wreaths of victory outshining all That shake from war-decked temples. Hear, my lord. By the power I hold in the true hearts and minds Of noble Syracusans, I forgive thee. _Voices._ No, no! _Cal._ My lord, he warned. He has a tongue Would flatter Zeus from heaven, and common minds He calls as flies to honey. _Dion._ Nay, his sweet Is wormwood now. Because this foolish man Has walked in sin, shall I too blemish virtue? _Voices._ Revenge! Revenge! _Dion._ Who offers injury, And who revenges it, ply the same thread Of Nature's scarlet. Heraclides, go. Thou'rt free.