Whose beauty drew the feet of farthest kings,
And set a value in the poorest eye
To be a storied heritage to sons
When sires who saw had passed! Even thou hast won
From cold oblivion but an ashen cloak!
Aris. 'Tis tyranny lies here, not Syracuse.
Ay, from these mourn�d ashes, friend, will spring
A brighter glory than they bury now,
And this night's woe bear fruitage of a peace
When Time shall hang as thick with happy hours