Uncaskets nothing in the hour of bloom,
But fans the air with its own waste of leaves.
Even so my hope, that with the swelling year
Pressed to a summer crown, unfolds on naught
And prodigal of self to naught is come.
[Goes into garden. Stars appear in the sky visible beyond columns, rear. Servants come out of the palace and set lights about the court. Enter Aratea and Aristocles from palace, front. They cross to rear and sit between two of the columns]
Ara. Aristocles—my Dion's friend and mine—
rest upon your soul and feel encirqued
By silent potence, like the quietude
Of heaven when gods are still,—when prayers come not,