Aris. Receive her, sir.
Dion. Never, my friend! What can you know of this?
Aris. I know she is Pandora without taint!
The secret pattern lost in mourning heaven
When rapt Hephaistos shaped the perfect clay
By Pallas' breath made vital! Sir, receive her!
Let me implore it by our years of love.
Dion. Thou'rt dear to me as man may be to man,
But wert thou dear as god may be to god,
I could not grant thy wish.