Ara. O, blow me, winds,
To some unpeopled sphere, and find me peace
As sweet as his who cropped the first day fruits
Of green unharrowed earth!
Dion. This is no answer.
Ara. My lord, if 't be my prayers can save my soul,
In some far fane I'll serve the priestess' cup
Till Death is kind and calls me.
Dion. [Seizing her arm] Answer me!
Art mine, or his?