Aris. Sir, upon the soil
Of this fair courtesy I'd lodge a seed
Might bloom with Dion's pardon.
Diony. Pardon Dion!
By Delos' horned altar, no! My tongue
Compound my own destruction?
Aris. Sir, your tongue
Is bound to you, but I could wish it had
A wiser master.
Diony. Roast me in the bull