Bia. Nay, I come
A banished man.
Pyrr. I've heard how you were plucked.
Bia. No feather left.
Pyrr. Life, sir, is yours, and you
Cast it away in Lacedæmon.
Bia. Nay,—
Pyrr. You whose dark outrage made her honor bleed,
Think on her burning wound to set the foot
Of impudence and live?
Bia. I know the Spartans.
They will exalt my courage above death.
Pyrr. Courage that reckons so bates its own worth
Till a coward might disport it. You will meet
Death's mercy but no other.
Bia. No, the virtue
Dearest in them they'll hold dear in myself.
But if not so,—blow out your candle, Fate,
I'll go to bed.
Pyrr. Why not have fled to Persia?
She's softer mannered,—has no aching pride
Your death would poultice.