Amid this piping.
Dion. True, she's fair enough
For praise, but I'm a plain prose lover, friend,
Nor, like a doting osier o'er a brook,
Pore on her features, wasting oil of time
That should burn high in task of gods and state.
Phil. [Aside] I'll cast a pebble in this summer pool.
[To Aristocles] Sir, you will find our Dionysius worthy,
The proud descendant of a prouder sire,
Upholding well his shining heritage.