Nau. My gentle daughter—she that I could call
A sister to this rose—her mute complaints
Cry like dumb, wounded birds to my sore heart,
And I pass by nor help. For what, Phillistus?
That you may wear a crown in Syracuse.
A crown that is the golden nest of cares,
Brooded by every dismal wing may hatch
An enemy to peace.
Phil. And when didst grow
So wise, Nauresta?