A hall in the palace.
Phayllus, Theras.

THERAS

His fortune holds.

PHAYLLUS

He has won great victories
And stridden exultant like a god of death
Over Grecian, Syrian and Armenian slain;

But being mortal at each step has lost
A little blood. His veins are empty now.
Where will he get new armies ? His small force
May beat Nicanor's large one, even reach Antioch,
To find the Macedonian there. They have landed.
He is ours, Theras, this great god of tempest,
Our captive whom he threatens, doomed to death
While he yet conquers.

Timocles enters with Cleone, then the
musicians and dancing girls.

TIMOCLES

Bring in the wine and flowers; sit down, sit down.

Call in the dancers. Through the Coan robes

Let their bright flashing limbs assault my eyes

Capturing the hours, imprisoning my heart

In a white whirl of movement. Sit, Cleone.

Here on my breast, against my shoulder! You rose

Retailed and armed, you burden of white limbs

Made to be kissed and handled, you Cleone!

Yes, let the world be flowers and flowers our crown

With rosy linkings red as our own hearts

Of passion. O wasp soft-settling, poignant, sting,

Sting me with bliss until I die of it.

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PHAYLLUS

I do not like this violence. Theras, go.

Theras leaves the hall.

TIMOCLES

Drink, brother 'Phayllus. Your webs will glitter more brightly,

You male Arachne.

More wine! I'll float my heart out in the wine

And pour all on the ground to naked Eros

As a libation. I will hide my heart

In roses, I will smother thought with jonquils.

Sing, someone to me! sing of flowers, sing mere

Delight to me far from this troubled world.

Song

Will you bring cold gems to crown me,

Child of light?

Rather quick from breathing closes

Bring me sunlight, myrtle, roses,

Robe me in delight.

Give me rapture for my dress,

For its girdle happiness.

TIMOCLES

Closer, Cleone; pack honey into a kiss.
Another song! you dark-browed Syrian there!

Song
Wilt thou snare Love with rosy brightness

To make him stay with thee ?
The petulant child of a fair, cruel mother,
He flees from me to crown another.

O misery!
Love cannot be snared, love cannot be shared;

Light love ends wretchedly.

TIMOCLES

Remove these wine-cups! tear these roses down!
Who snared me with these bonds ? Take hence, thou harlot,

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Thy rose-faced beauty! Thou art not Rodogune.

CLEONE

What is this meanness ?

TIMOCLES

Hence! leave me! I am sick
Of thy gold and roses.

PHAYLLUS

Go, women, from the room;

The King is ill. Go, girl, leave him to me.

All go, Cleone reluctantly, leaving
Phayllus with Timocles.

TIMOCLES

I will not bear it any more. Give me my love
Or let me die.

PHAYLLUS

In a few nights from this
Thou shalt embrace her.

TIMOCLES

Silence! It was not I.
What have I said? It was the wine that spoke.
Look not upon me with those eyes of thine.

PHAYLLUS

The wine or some more deep insurgent spirit
Burns in thy blood. Thou shalt clasp Rodogune.

TIMOCLES

Thy words, thy looks appal me. She's my brother's wife
Sacred to me.

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PHAYLLUS

His wife? Who wedded them?
For not in camps and deserts Syria's kings
Accomplish wedlock. She's his concubine.
Slave girl she is and bed-mate of thy brother
And may be thine. Or if she were his soul-close wife
Death rends all ties.

TIMOCLES

I will not shed his blood.
Silence, thou tempter! he is sacred to me.

PHAYLLUS

Thou need'st not stain thy hands. King Timocles.
Be he live flesh or carrion, she is thine.

TIMOCLES

Yet has she lain between my brother's arms.

PHAYLLUS

What if she were thy sister, should that bar thee
From satisfaction of thy heart and body?

TIMOCLES

Do you not tremble when you say such things ?

PHAYLLUS

We have outgrown these thoughts of children. King:

Nor gods nor ghosts can frighten us. You shake

At phantoms of opinion or you feign

To start at such, forgetting what you are.

The royal house of Egypt heeds them not,

Where you are nursed. Your mother sprang from incest.

If in this life you lose your Rodogune,

Are others left where you may have her bliss ?

Your brother thought not so, but took her here.

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TIMOCLES

I'll not be tempted by thee.

PHAYLLUS

No, by thyself
Be tempted and the thought of Rodogune.
Or shall we leave her to her present joys ?
Perhaps she sleeps yet by Antiochus
Or held by him to sweeter vigilance.

TIMOCLES (furiously)

Accursed ruffian, give her to my arms.
Use fair means or use foul, use steel, use poison,
But free me from these inner torments.

PHAYLLUS

From more
Than passion's injuries. Trust thy fate to me
Who am its guardian.

He goes out.

TIMOCLES

I am afraid, afraid!
What furies out of hell have I aroused
Within, without me ? Let them do their will.
For I must have her once between my arms,
Though Heaven leap down in lightnings.

Page – 425