Cre. Nay, come!
Soon every ear in Athens will be crammed
Wi' the tale.
Syb. What tale?
Cre. 'Tis said that Biades
Was cap and spur to riot that defaced
The Hermæ yesternight.
Bia. Denosed, you mean.
Pha. O, do not jest! I tremble, Biades!
Cre. You must o'ertake the lie, my lord, ere winds
Be up with 't.
Bia. Let it fly, my Creon. When
Its wings are worn 'twill down for any heel
To trample.
Cre. Not this feather. It broods on the air,
And its dark issue makes eclipse your sun
Can push no beam through.
Bia. Sinon's pate has hatched
The ebon chick.
Cre. You're not far out. He wants
The generalship.