[Re-enter Aratea, shorn of her locks, which she lays at Aristocles' feet. Her veil is draped about her, concealing her loss]
O! Maimed, my goddess?
Ara. See?
I knew you'd say me nay. But now 'tis done.
Aris. Those locks of Venus' gold.
Ara. The dagger served.
Aris. Too well!
Ara. [Weaving the locks] Not so. Now, now a rope to bridge
Eternity for thee! More strands! Lend me
Your lightnings, blessed skies, to weave this chain!