And by that love still dost thou grow more fair.
For is not love a second, truer eye,
Finding out beauty where the first could not?
No more! We'll plead hereafter. 'Tis an hour
To win, not woo. Swords must be burnished, sails
Must meet the wind!
Ara. Are you Ocrastes? No!
O, no! He is the son of Dion's love,
And you would wed his wife. He was a poor
Forsaken babe, his mighty heritage