On wings that clipped the burning orient,
Hovers the cautious mate at pains to find
A youngling's breakfast.
[Re-enter Dion]
Dion. Come, my friend. You're skilled
In harbor matters, and I need your word.
[Exeunt Dion and Aristocles, right]
Bren. Is your wise man married?
Tich. That's a fool's question.