Now riven heart, Close firm as mountain bulwark that beats off The Thracian wind. [_Enter Aristocles with Theano and Aratea_] _Dion._ [_To Theano_] Good welcome, niece. [_He embraces Theano, and looks silently at Aratea_] _Ara._ [_Falteringly_] My lord---- _Dion._ Your friend, your lover--ay, your slave,--but not Your lord, sweet Aratea. _Ara._ O! Condemned! _Dion._ Not that--but---- _Ara._ Then you'll hear me? _Dion._ No! Your voice Renews in me the battle that I thought Was fought to end. _Ara._ But I could say, my lord---- _Dion._ Ay, you could say what would revoke the sun, Turn back into his heart his golden spears, And from the sapphire battlements make pour Surpris�d night! How easy then to shake The scarce-sworn vow from my unfended breast To melt like snowflake caught in lap of June! _Ara._ O, sir---- _Dion._ You've that in you defeats resolve, And casts in broil the mind's high chancery. I will not hear a word! 'Tis my defence, Not cruelty. All honor shall be thine Apart from me. _Ara._ What honor may be mine Apart from thee? _Dion._ Nay, question not my justice! _Ara._ You think me vile, my lord? _Dion._ Mayhap I do! Were there no poisons left in Sicily? No rank, night-sweating herbs whose bane might work Proud honor's choice? Were daggers grown too blunt To pierce fair flesh? What, not a rope--nor cord? No garters--strips of silken robes---- _Aris._ O, spare To accuse a soul who erred that she might still Be true to Heaven. _Dion._ True? By Pallas! True? _Aris._ Sir, she obeyed the gods who bid us wait And work on earth our destiny. _Dion._ The gods Sometimes write in our fates that to seek death Is what will solely please them. _Aris._ Must I see The sun of justice in you set? _Dion._ Ah, friend, Do you not see 'tis my desire that cries To keep her still? 'Tis passion weighing doubts, Hoping to find them light as rising vapors. _Aris._ Though she had struck at life within her heart, Swart Atropos had dropped her shears for pity, Nor helped so fair a woe to death. Yet you---- _Dion._ O, she is pure, but not to me! 'Tis stamped Upon my soul that she is dark to me Though fair to Heaven! _The._ Hear her, sir. She took No vows. Her lips were dumb---- _Dion._ O, vows! You speak Of words? _The._ But---- _Dion._ Silence, niece! _Aris._ Receive her, sir. _Dion._ Never, my friend! What can you know of this?