[Courtiers hurry away. Ocrastes and Aristocles alone]
Oc. I'll rouse the populace!
Aris. No, you will calm it.
Oc. Sir, I was knit in heat and tempered mortal!
Your natal star was cold when you were born,
Dead in the heavens, had long forgot its fire,
And could not give one twinkle's warmth to you!
I've blood, and know my friends!
Aris. Dost think that sorrow
Lives only in hot brows? No angers be