Phil. Thou wert a statesman once, Melanthon; now,
Grown dim with age, thy eye pervades no more
The deep-laid schemes which Dionysius plans.
Know then, a fleet from Carthage even now
Stems the rough billow; and, ere yonder sun,
That now declining seeks the western wave,
Shall to the shades of night resign the world,
Thou'lt see the Punic sails in yonder bay,
Whose waters wash the walls of Syracuse.
Mel. Art thou a stranger to Timoleon's name?
Intent to plan, and circumspect to see
All possible events, he rushes on
Resistless in his course! Your boasted master
Scarce stands at bay; each hour the strong blockade
Hems him in closer, and ere long thou'lt view
Oppression's iron rod to fragments shiver'd!
The good Evander then——
Phil. Alas, Evander
Will ne'er behold the golden time you look for!
Mel. How! not behold it! Say, Philotas, speak;
Has the fell tyrant,—have his felon murderers——
Phil. As yet, my friend, Evander lives.
Mel. And yet
Thy dark half-hinted purpose—lead me to him;
If thou hast murder'd him——
Phil. By Heav'n, he lives.
Mel. Then bless me with one tender interview.
Thrice has the sun gone down, since last, these eyes
Have seen the good old king; say, why is this?
Wherefore debarr'd his presence? Thee, Philotas,
The troops obey, that guard the royal pris'ner;
Each avenue to thee is open; thou
Canst grant admittance; let me, let me see him.
Phil. Entreat no more; the soul of Dionysius
Is ever wakeful; rent with all the pangs
That wait on conscious guilt.
Mel. But when dun night——