_Enter_ LEOSTHENES _and_ TIMAGORAS. _Timag._ I am so far from envy, I am proud You have outstripp'd me in the race of honour. O 'twas a glorious day, and bravely won! Your bold performance gave such lustre to Timoleon's wise directions, as the army Rests doubtful, to whom they stand most engaged For their so great success. _Leost._ The gods first honour'd, The glory be the general's; 'tis far from me To be his rival. _Timag._ You abuse your fortune, To entertain her choice and gracious favours With a contracted brow; plumed Victory Is truly painted with a cheerful look, Equally distant from proud insolence, And base dejection. _Leost._ O Timagoras, You only are acquainted with the cause That loads my sad heart with a hill of lead; Whose ponderous weight, neither my new-got honour, Assisted by the general applause The soldier crowns it with, nor all war's glories, Can lessen or remove: and, would you please, With fit consideration, to remember How much I wrong'd Cleora's innocence With my rash doubts; and what a grievous penance She did impose upon her tender sweetness, To pluck away the vulture, jealousy, That fed upon my liver; you cannot blame me, But call it a fit justice on myself, Though I resolve to be a stranger to The thought of mirth or pleasure. _Timag._ You have redeem'd The forfeit of your fault with such a ransom Of honourable action, as my sister Must of necessity confess her sufferings, Weigh'd down by your fair merits; and, when she views you, Like a triumphant conqueror, carried through The streets of Syracusa, the glad people Pressing to meet you, and the senators Contending who shall heap most honours on you; The oxen, crown'd with garlands, led before you, Appointed for the sacrifice; and the altars Smoking with thankful incense to the gods: The soldiers chanting loud hymns to your praise, The windows fill'd with matrons and with virgins, Throwing upon your head, as you pass by, The choicest flowers, and silently invoking The queen of love, with their particular vows, To be thought worthy of you; can Cleora (Though, in the glass of self-love, she behold Her best deserts) but with all joy acknowledge What she endured was but a noble trial You made of her affection? and her anger, Rising from your too amorous cares, soon drench'd In Lethe, and forgotten.