osing host, the thundering onset
Of fierce conflicting squadrons, and the advance
Of the victorious hosts. Oh for the vigour
And freshness of such life! But I have chosen
To sleep on beds of down, as Caesar might,
And live a woman's minion.

_Gycia._ Good my husband,
Thou shouldst not speak thus. I would have thee win
Thy place in the Senate, rule our Cherson's fortunes,
Be what my father was without the name,
And gain that too in time.

_Asan._ What! You would have me
Cozen, intrigue, and cheat, and play the huckster,
As your republicans, peace on their lips
And subtle scheming treaties, till the moment
When it is safe to spring? Would you have me cringe
To the ignorant mob of churls, through whose sweet voices
The road to greatness lies? Nay, nay; I am
A King's son, and of Bosphorus, not Cherson--
A Scythian more than Greek.

_Gycia._ Nay, my good lord,
Scythian or Greek, to me thou art more dear
Than all the world beside. Yet will not duty,
The memory of the dead, the love of country,
The pride of the great race from which we spring,
Suffer my silence wholly, hearing thee.
It is not true that men Athenian-born
Are of less courage, less of noble nature,
More crafty in design, less frank of purpose,
Than are thy countrymen. They have met and fought them,
Thou knowest with what fate. For polity
I hold it better that self-governed men
Should, using freedom, but eschewing license,
Fare to what chequered fate the will of Heaven
Reserves for them, than shackled by the chains
The wisest tyrant, gilding servitude
With seeming gains, imposes. We are free
In speech, in council, in debate, in act,
As when our great Demosthenes hurled back
Defiance to the tyrant. Nay, my lord,
Forgive my open speech. I have not forgot
That we are one in heart and mind and soul,
Knit in sweet bonds for ever. Put from thee
This jaundiced humour.
If State-craft please not, by the headlong chase
Which once I know thou lovedst. Do not grudge
To leave me; for to-day my bosom friend,
After two years of absence, comes to me.
I shall not feel alone, having Irene.

_Asan._ Whom dost thou say? Irene?

_Gycia._ Yes, the same
She was crossed in love, poor girl, dost thou remember,
When we were wed?

_Asan._ Gycia, I mind it well.
Send her a