Cre. Your pictures——
Bia. What? If they've one finger laid
On those immortal treasures——
Cre. All are riddled!
Bia. All, Creon? Not my Zeuxis? No! The stones
Hurled at it would have paused as though a god
Were hidden there!
Cre. All, friend.
Bia. Ay, these are tears.
But I will chide them and think on my sword.
Now I must bend me to the senators,—
Get leave to call my troops,—
[Enter a body of senators, Amentor at their head]
Most noble lords,
I was about to seek you.
Amen. Shifts your mood,
Proud Biades? The answer's not yet cold
That came so hot from you,—a two-edged shame
That struck into your honor as our own!
Bia. Nay, gentle senators, Athenian fathers!
That you could note so low, so foul a charge
As secret Sinon brought against my name,
Gave me the block, the bellows, and the fire
Wherewith I forged my answer,—one that kept
My honor whole, and if your own needs surgery,
Lay 't not to me, but let good sense mend all,
And give me leave to go against this mob
Now scarring Athens' beauty.
Amen. Go alone.
Bia. I have an army.