Oc. O joy,
My lord!
Cal. And joy for Heraclides' death!
Aris. Poor man! His flattery so soon found friends
That he himself was caught by it, and thought
To gain a crown by Dion's death. E'en while
They talked—O ne'er was friendly speech so punctured—
His sword was out and aimed at Dion's bosom.
Oc. Your blade is purple, but it should be black,
So vile his blood!