A strange tale, Damon, this to tell to me
And introduce as thou at first began.
Damon:
Thy life, Cydilla, has at all times been
A ceremony: this young man's
Discovered by free impulse, not couched in forms
Worn and made smooth by prudent folk long dead.
I love Hipparchus for his wave-like brightness;
He wastes himself, but till his flash is gone
I shall be ever glad to hear him laugh:
Nor could one make a Spartan of him even
Were one the Spartan with a will to do it.
Yet had there been no more than what is told,
Thou wouldst not now be lending ear to me.
Cydilla:
Hearing such things, I think of my poor son,
Which makes me far too sad to smile at folly.
Damon:
There, let me tell thee all just as it happened,
And of thy son I shall be speaking soon.
Cydilla:
Delphis! Alas, are his companions still
No better than such ne'er-do-wells? I thought
His life was sager now, though he has killed
My hopes of seeing him a councillor.
Damon: