one with them,
Trodden with them the daily paths of life,
Mixed in their pleasures, shared their hopes and fears
For two long happy years, to turn and doom
Their city to ruin, and their wives and children
To the insolence of rapine? Nay, I dare not.
I will sail at once, and get me gone for ever.
I will not tell my love that I am bound
By her father's jealous fancies to return
To Bosphorus no more. To break my oath!
That were to break it only in the word,
But keep it in the spirit. Surely Heaven
For such an innocent perjury keeps no pains.
But here she comes.

_Enter_ GYCIA.

_Gycia._ Didst send for me, my lord?

_Asan._ Gycia, the King is ill, and asks for me;
He is alone and weak.

_Gycia._ Then, fly to him
At once, and I will follow thee. But stay!
Is he in danger?

_Asan._ Nay, not presently;
Only the increasing weight of years o'ersets
His feeble sum of force.

_Gycia._ Keeps he his bed?

_Asan._ Not yet as I have known.

_Gycia._ Well then, dear heart,
We yet may be in time if we should tarry
To celebrate the honours we have vowed
To my dead father. This day sennight brings
The day which saw him die.

_Asan._ Nay, nay, my sweet;
'Twere best we went at once.

_Gycia._ My lord, I honour
The love thou bearest him, but go I cannot,
Until the feast is done. 'Twould cast discredit
On every daughter's love for her dead sire,
If I should leave this solemn festival
With all to do, and let the envious crowd
Carp at the scant penurious courtesy
Of hireling honours by an absent daughter
To her illustrious dead.

_Asan._ (_earnestly_). My love, 'twere best
We both were far away.

_Gycia._ My lord is pleased
To speak in riddles, but till reason speaks
'Twere waste of time to listen.

_Asan._ Nay, my wife,
Such words become thee not, but to obey
Is the best grace of woman. Were I able,
I would tell thee all, I fear, for thee and me,
But cannot.

_Gycia._ Then, love, thou canst go alone,
And I must follow thee. The Archon Zetho
Comes presently, to order what remains
To make the solemn festival do honour
To the blest memory of Lamachus.
Doubtless, he will devise some fitting pretext
To excuse thy absence.

_Asan._ Nay, thou