Might wear the belt of Mars. O, flower of heaven,
Yet wrapped in soft and strange delirium
Of odors once Elysian! Naught to me,
Who will not see her more. Now is she dead,
And I know but a grave. I'll sleep ... sleep ... sleep.
[Lies still. Enter Aratea. She is veiled, and her unbound hair falls about her form]
Ara. [Drawing inner bolt to door] I scarce could bribe the guard to let me pass!
[Looks about room and sees Aristocles]
Asleep? [Crosses to him. Unveils] Rise, friend!
Aris. [Starting] My dream.