Dion. Put up your sword, brave Panthus. Nay, put up!
Pan. [Dropping weapon] 'Twere better used, sir.
Dion. Heraclides, speak.
What would you say? Do you repent this night?
Her. All men, my lord, repent the step that brings
Their cloud-high foreheads to earth. I lie so low
That Fortune's sun-bent eye will find no more
My sunken ruin,—and but one comfort left,
I can descend no further.
Pan. Ay, to hell!