Pyrr. Not fight, philosophize, or sing!
What's left for an Athenian?
Bia. [Remembering her] Love, fair Pyrrha!
You know the tale how Chaos once uncurled
Her laboring bulk from round a fire-leafed rose
And sent its petals drifting down to fields
Where mortals foot with chance? Whoso they touch
Are lovers always, and one came to me.
Pyrr. Now here's ambition! And you live for that?
Bia. Ay there's the charm contents me with dull earth,
And puts a rainbow in my listless hand.
The way is pleasant if the road be love's,
And I'd not shorten it by one maid's eye.
To be a lover,—that's the graceful thing.
Then one moves velvetly, forgets no curve,
And lives his picture, line and color true.
Pyrr. That rôle's struck from your play, you'll find, my lord.
Maidens will smile, but scorn will set the lip,
And women's eyes be warm, but hate their fire
For you, the traitor.
Bia. Traitor?
Pyrr. [In the door] See the gleam
On Athens, yours no more. The softest breast
Within her walls is steel when you are named.
Bia. But there are maids in Sparta.
Pyrr. Not for you,
A traitor to the soil that gave you life.
Bia. That soil first cast me off.