Pyrr. A mother strikes
Her child, but should the child return the blow
Gods would droop eyes and blush.
Bia. But were I true
To my own land, I should be false to yours.
Pyrr. A virtue that. A maid might love you then.
Bia. A Spartan maid?
Pyrr. A Spartan maid. But now
We hold you as no more than loathèd bait
To capture Athens. Used as a stuck fly
To hook a chub!
[Enter Hieron]
Bia. What saucy fury sports
With Hieron? His even smile's unfixed
As the middle of two minds.
Hie. Sir, Phernes sends
Six maidens from his ship to dance before you.
The noble Persian chooses time most fit
For wantoning,—the hour of sacrifice
And battle prayer.
Bia. You're justly kindled. What
Though it be royal custom in his East,—
A grace from king to king,—to garnish danger
With frillet of relief that makes death seem
The last-dropped toy, we'll dare to let him know
That we are Greeks, and walk the edge of graves
With eyes upon the gods. Go, pack them off!
Hie. Why,—so I meant. The act struck rudely on
Our ritual hour. But if his Eastern mind
Paints it a courtesy——