Oc. Nay, I'll rest here.
[Lies down on one of the long seats]
I know you talk of Dion, and one who loves him
Brings no intrusive ear,—or if it is,
'Tis deaf with weariness.
Ara. [To Aristocles] He's tempest-racked
Between his love and friend. Ay, me, the world!
Aris. I'll leave you now. No more of my poor thoughts.
You're wearied with long listening. [Rises]
Ara. O, sir,