Hie. I'll swear.
Bia. Oh, not that price! No, till the end
O' the world!
Pyrr. Life, Biades, life!
Bia. I will not do it!
Athens may singly conquer!
Pyrr. Then you die
By Sparta's hand, and Athens holds your name
Accursed through time. The irons, Hieron.
[Biades hunches despairingly, his face hidden]
Pyrr. [Apart] Gods! He will yield!
Bia. [Looking up] I'll do it,—dare to live,—
And Attica may call me what she will.
A traitor breathes, and feels the blessed sun.
He's ne'er so poor but can his housing find
In alms-lapped Nature. Her unchoosing airs
Ask not his name before they touch his brow
And tell him when 'tis spring. He yet may dream
In unrebuking shades, and birds will sing
As liquidly as though he were not by.
Food is yet food, and wine is ever wine.
I will not die. [Rises] By Maia's son, I'll live!
What is my country but the bit of earth
Where chance did spawn me? 'Tis no treachery.
We're traitors unto love, not hate,—to trust,
Not doubt and slander such as Athens poured
Upon me guiltless.
Pyrr. [Crossing to him] So you've found a way
To save both life and honor!
Bia. May a worm
Not creep to cleaner dust? Pyrrha, be kind.
Spare me the trampling foot.