’Twould seem that every flower with one accord
Were opened, that the lungs of men be stifled,
And Earth herself outgasped her latest breath.
Thoas.
So gay and early, Karna? Pardon, I took you,
Lord, for another. You not yet in bed?
I trow the taste of fame bans sleep—oho!
Gyges.
The taste of fame?
Thoas.