Ara. But I could say, my lord——
Dion. Ay, you could say what would revoke the sun,
Turn back into his heart his golden spears,
And from the sapphire battlements make pour
Surpris�d night! How easy then to shake
The scarce-sworn vow from my unfended breast
To melt like snowflake caught in lap of June!
Ara. O, sir——
Dion. You've that in you defeats resolve,
And casts in broil the mind's high chancery.