Pyrr. Ah, the moon
Of Artemis! A virgin's hand. They ask
Not mine?
Lys. You are a bride in Sparta's eyes.
Would Truth might speak it too! For Biades
Has won all love but yours.
Pyrr. I'll wed no traitor.
Lys. What? He is false?
Pyrr. Ay, false to Athens.
Lys. Phut!
[Enter Hieron]
Hie. How like you this, sir? Biades has stripped
The galley of its rowers,—sent them all
To his gilded Ino,—every boat in charter
To bear his trappings,—parchments, maps, and gifts
From Phernes,—curtains, instruments——
Lys. The stuff
Goes with the admiral, and what other way
Than by the boats? Say naught of 't.
Hie. This a time
To spend a feathering!