Bia. I will, dear Hieron,
Since 'tis your suit.
Hie. Thanks, thanks, my lord.
Bia. Let them come in. I'll see their briefest dance,
And give Alissa one commending word,
Which straight as faithful bee she'll hive
In Phernes' ear.
[Exit Hieron]
What think you of it, Pyrrha?
You do approve me?
Pyrr. Approve your wits, my friend.
Had they been Spartan trained, you'd bring them off,
Untarnished still, from argument with Zeus.
Bia. When Pallas praises, bow.
Pyrr. Poor Hieron
Is now the sweating agent of your will
To see these callets dance.
Bia. Unpitiful!
I'd touch my lips to Lethe, and you'd snatch
The oblivious drop from me! You know how dear
The bond that shall be cut with sword of dawn,—
So close no seer may tell which shall bleed most,
Athens or her lost son.
Pyrr. Art low at last?
Bia. Dun, dun, my Pyrrha, as a Barbary pigeon!
So low not all my pride can vaunt me up.
Then let me have my wine,—the draught of eyes,
Of music and of smiles, till I be drunk
And sleep.
[Enter six Athenian youths, led by Clearchus, all disguised as Persian dancers. As they dance before Biades his pleasure quickens to abandonment]