Chapter 14Scene 2

A hall in the Palace. Phayllus, Theras. THERAS His fortune holds. PHAYLLUS He has won great victories And stridden exultant like a god of death Over Grecian, Syrian and Armenian slain; But being mortal at each step has lost A little blood. His veins are empty now. Where will he get new armies? His small force May beat Nicanor’s large one, even reach Antioch, To find the Macedonian there. They have landed. He is ours, Theras, this great god of tempest, Our captive whom he threatens, doomed to death While he yet conquers. Timocles enters with Cleone, then the musicians and dancing-girls. TIMOCLES Bring in the wine and flowers; sit down, sit down. Call in the dancers. Through the Coan robes Let their bright flashing limbs assault my eyes Capturing the hours, imprisoning my heart In a white whirl of movement. Sit, Cleone. Here on my breast, against my shoulder! You rose Petalled and armed, you burden of white limbs Made to be kissed and handled, you Cleone! Yes, let the world be flowers and flowers our crown

Act IV, Scene 2 With rosy linkings red as our own hearts Of passion. O wasp soft-settling, poignant, sting, Sting me with bliss until I die of it. PHAYLLUS I do not like this violence. Theras, go. Theras leaves the hall. TIMOCLES Drink, brother Phayllus. Your webs will glitter more brightly, You male Arachne. More wine! I’ll float my heart out in the wine And pour all on the ground to naked Eros As a libation. I will hide my heart In roses, I will smother thought with jonquils. Sing, someone to me! sing of flowers, sing mere Delight to me far from this troubled world. Song Will you bring cold gems to crown me, Child of light? Rather quick from breathing closes Bring me sunlight, myrtles, roses, Robe me in delight. Give me rapture for my dress, For its girdle happiness. TIMOCLES Closer, Cleone; pack honey into a kiss. Another song! you dark-browed Syrian there! Song Wilt thou snare Love with rosy brightness To make him stay with thee? The petulant child of a fair, cruel mother, He flees from me to crown another. O misery! Love cannot be snared, love cannot be shared; Light love ends wretchedly.

Rodogune TIMOCLES Remove these wine-cups! tear these roses down! Who snared me with these bonds? Take hence, thou harlot, Thy rose-faced beauty! Thou art not Rodogune. CLEONE What is this madness? TIMOCLES Hence! leave me! I am sick Of thy gold and roses. PHAYLLUS Go, women, from the room; The King is ill. Go, girl, leave him to me. All go, Cleone reluctantly, leaving Phayllus with Timocles. TIMOCLES I will not bear it any more. Give me my love Or let me die. PHAYLLUS In a few nights from this Thou shalt embrace her. TIMOCLES Silence! It was not I. What have I said? It was the wine that spoke. Look not upon me with those eyes of thine. PHAYLLUS The wine or some more deep insurgent spirit Burns in thy blood. Thou shalt clasp Rodogune. TIMOCLES Thy words, thy looks appal me. She’s my brother’s wife Sacred to me.

Act IV, Scene 2 PHAYLLUS His wife? Who wedded them? For not in camps and deserts Syria’s kings Accomplish wedlock. She’s his concubine. Slave-girl she is and bed-mate of thy brother And may be thine. Or if she were his soul-close wife, Death rends all ties. TIMOCLES I will not shed his blood. Silence, thou tempter! he is sacred to me. PHAYLLUS Thou needst not stain thy hands, King Timocles. Be he live flesh or carrion, she is thine. TIMOCLES Yet has she lain between my brother’s arms. PHAYLLUS What if she were thy sister, should that bar thee From satisfaction of thy heart and body? TIMOCLES Do you not tremble when you say such things? PHAYLLUS We have outgrown these thoughts of children, king: Nor gods nor ghosts can frighten us. You shake At phantoms of opinion or you feign To start at such, forgetting what you are. The royal house of Egypt heeds them not, Where you were nursed. Your mother sprang from incest. If in this life you lose your Rodogune, Are others left where you may have her bliss? Your brother thought not so, but took her here.

Rodogune TIMOCLES I’ll not be tempted by thee. PHAYLLUS No, by thyself Be tempted and the thought of Rodogune. Or shall we leave her to her present joys? Perhaps she sleeps yet by Antiochus Or held by him to sweeter vigilance — TIMOCLES (furiously) Accurs`ed ruffian, give her to my arms. Use fair means or use foul, use steel, use poison, But free me from these inner torments. PHAYLLUS From more Than passion’s injuries. Trust thy fate to me Who am its guardian. He goes out. TIMOCLES I am afraid, afraid! What furies out of hell have I aroused Within, without me? Let them do their will. For I must have her once between my arms, Though Heaven leap down in lightnings.