_Dion._ Untouched! No bridal kiss! My blindness goes. But Heaven, in pity, shut me dark again, For I have wronged Ocrastes--who is dead. How could your woman heart not know the truth-- That he thus saved you from a baser touch To be restored all perfect, pure to me? And he is dead. Give me your pity, gods! Now we will mourn, Theano. Here, my daughter. Our griefs let marry in our kissing tears. [_Embraces Theano_] But there's a brightness yet in this dark woe. [_Advances to Aratea_] Once more, my love, my wife, you are all mine. [_Aristocles steps before Aratea_] What mean you now? _Aris._ To guard my own. For you The pearl of opportunity is lost. Briareus' hands could not now snatch it back Where 't pales on time's retreating wave. _Dion._ By Mars, I'll pass you, sir! _The._ Let Aratea speak. Is 't not for her to choose? _Dion._ A wedded woman Can have no choice. _The._ O, Dion, be a god, Not man, and grant it. _Aris._ Choose thine own. As free As new created star, fix where thou wilt. _Diem._ Ay, choose! Thou art my wife. Thy holy truth Will fail thee not. Speak! End this bitter folly From which the gods would turn shame-burning face! _The._ Not if all tale be true. _Dion._ You speak too much! _Ara._ First swear, my lords, however I may choose, You'll still be friends, as honored and as true As though this face I loathe had never come Between your loves. _Aris._ I swear to you my friend Shall be my friend. _Ara._ You, sir? _Dion._ I will forgive him, For love has made him mad. _Ara._ Swear it by Heaven. _Dion._ By Heaven. Now wilt speak? _Ara._ Such sacred oaths Need sacrificial rite, and here I give My blood. [_Suddenly draws a dagger and attempts to stab herself. Aristocles, watching eagerly, seizes dagger, and supporting her speaks wildly_] _Aris._ Think not that you can fly me now! Though thou wert dead still wouldst thou live for me In such dear semblance of remembered show That I would seek to woo thy houseless spirit E'er give thee o'er unclasped to Heaven! _Ara._ Ah! [_Releases herself_] _Dion._ But now she lives, and living she is mine. _Aris._ Her lips, not yours, shall say! _Dion._ Lost man, thou'rt crazed. I pity thee. Speak, wife. _Ara._ O, blow me, winds, To some unpeopled sphere, and find me peace As sweet as his who cropped the first day fruits Of green unharrowed earth! _Dion._ This is no answer.