Bia. What's Syracuse? To conquer Sparta,—that
Were warrior's work! Your father robs me of it,
Bringing the water where I set my fires.
But come! I've not made love to a soul to-day
Save ancient Sparta. Ha! it is an art
That should be spared such sweat. The Heavens mean
That I shall pull to yoke these two days left,
And love take beggar's chance.
Pha. Ah, but two days!
Bia. Come to our myrtle nook——
Pha. Nay, Sybaris
Might turn me out. That is her royal seat
When you'll play consort.
Bia. What, my Phania? Dour?
Does Creon keep away?
Pha. I'm not for him.
You know it, Biades.
Bia. But he does not.
Too oft I find him here.
Pha. And Sybaris
Comes out of count, knowing you like this spot.
Yon path is worn of every blade.
Bia. Her feet
Can be so cruel?
Pha. You love her still!