Bia. With Mars i' the dusk of this debated time,
The Athenian general may not wive himself
With Sparta.
Cre. True!
Bia. I might give up command,
And be no more my country's armored watch....
Nay, Attica is first! That's sworn. I'll plunge
The sacrificial knife deep as my love.
And now 'tis done. Ah, Creon, tend thee well
My gentle loss.
Cre. This sets thee o'er thyself!
O noblest bounty that in grace compeers
With emulous Heaven! What in me can pay——
Bia. No more of 't now. But what a secret this!
If 't solely were my own—
Cre. It is, my lord!
'Tis yours. I have no speech, no tongue for 't!
Bia. Thanks,
My Creon, thanks! And will you go once more
To th' street, where now it seems I have some need
Of loyal ears?
Cre. I serve you, Biades. [Exit, upper right]
Bia. Fast hooked, and feels no barb. If he'll lie dark
Till I would stir the waters.... Is it truth?
Pyrrha! Athenian born and Spartan bred!
By Mars and Eros! Here's a captain's bride!
There's flutter in me like a forest shook
With waking birds!
[Re-enter Phania, still weeping]