Lys. And all the graves where lie
The dead we brought two bleeding years ago
From Decalea's wall, where you gave entry
Then broke the truce with charge!
Bia. But hear, my lords——
Gir. Come, wail beside them till they wake and ask
What new calamity brews in your tears!
[Enter Lenon]
Len. Agis yet swoons. That root was edged with death.
We fear he's gone.
Gir. For this alone, Athenian,
You should not live,—though all your else-wrought deeds
Were mercy's pawn for you.
Bia. Ye fathers, hear!
If ye know Justice,—and the world has said
Her lovers dwell in Sparta,—shall he cry
To scorn-shut ears, whose injuries taking voice
Should pass in thunder where your virtues sleep?
Hear one whose wrongs have bruised him to your coast,
And let it not be said that you from safe
Unshaken rocks met suppliant hands with spears!
Ste. Ye noble elders, there's a sort of mercy
On which dishonor feeds. As pasty, soft
As butter in the sun, it chokes the sluice
Of reason,—in marshy obliteration lays
The marks and bounds of justice,—nauseous spreads
Till mind is left no throne. Let it not come
Where sit the guards of honor!
Bia. I grant you so.
But what I ask is not thus natured, sir!
Sages of Lacedæmon, there's a mercy
That veins the very rock of Justice' seat.
It is the agent of divinest mould
In all the world. By it the mind grows fair
With blossoms deity may gather. 'Tis
As precious to the soul as south-lipped winds
To the winter-aching earth. Go bare of it,
Though ye know Virtue ye wear not her pearl.
I beg my life that you in saving me
May save the heavenliest favor given to men,
Nor crush it out of Sparta, leaving her
The scarred and barren terror gods forsake.
Second Ephor. Shall hear his plea? He may have argument
Of worthy note.