Ara. But 'tis so true!
The winding zephyr, not the hurrying gale,
Finds out the hidden rose. My brother's heart
Has yet a grain of good, which gentleness
May find and touch to life.
Dion. It was the slight,
The unseemly slight to you, Aristocles,
So chafed me.
Aris. Think but of our charge, my friend,
Fair Syracuse.