_Oc._ Ere I have done your constancy shall hear Such music of true love you'll think those birds That move the gentle concords of the night In these bright locks make bower continual. [_Kisses her hair_] For every hour of your ungracious star, With the full circuit of a smiling moon I'll pension you, till covetous of time You'll wish your sorrows had been more, not less. _Dion._ Not one embrace for me? _Oc._ Before I make My plea for pardon? _Dion._ That may wait, my son, For empty hours. This is too full of joy. _Oc._ I did not go to Italy, my lord, But to the Leontines---- _Dion._ O, go not back To read the bloodprints of bewildered feet. Now as the soft life-wooing breath that moves So swift upon the track of orient storms That ere the woeful people dry their tears Earth is new-clad in garments of the sun And balm is in the air like blessings winged, Fanning delight in every lifted cheek, So treads this hour at heel of flying woe. [_Enter Brentio, rear_] _Bren._ My lord, the people in the banquet hall are drinking all the cellars dry. You'd weep to see it, sir. [_Sees Theano and Ocrastes. Looks in bewilderment from one to the other, claps hand to his purse and runs out_] _Dion._ The slave's beset. _Oc._ He's drunk, my lord. _Dion._ I had forgot Heraclides. [_Going_] Ocrastes, come. We'll not so soon be parted. You to my wife, Theano. [_Exeunt Dion and Ocrastes, rear; Theano through curtains, left_] _Aris._ [_Alone_] Dion, how oft hast sworn I was thy dearest, Yet go to happiness while I droop here As to my grave. Nor dost thou need me more Than quickest life its century-buried dead. Yet one is yon, behind those curtains close, Who starves even as you feed. Her love is mine. By Heaven, I know 'tis mine! Yet I must go-- Leave her to perish. Ay, her flower soul Not long will bear the weight of unloved love. [_Soldiers enter hall, rear, drinking and singing_] O, Helen had a rosy lip, And only one might kiss it, But all of mistress wine may sip And she will never miss it. Ho, brothers all are we, Brothers all are we! We've sworn to the last red drop, Be it found in a heart or found in a cup, And brothers all we be! A soldier's trade it is to die, And what poor fools are they Who for a soldier's death will sigh-- 'Tis all in a business way. Ho, brothers all are we, &c. [_Exeunt drunkenly_]