Ion; a Tragedy

Notice, instead of Dedication

In offering this attempt at dramatic composition to the public at large, I should not intrude a single remark if I were not reminded of an irreparable loss by the necessity of omitting a Dedication to one whose name should have graced its opening page. The two Editions which have been privately circulated were inscribed to my venerable and indulgent friend, Dr. Valpy, upon whose long life of kindness Death has since set the final seal. When I ventured to claim for it his protection, I well knew that I might rely upon that charity which lavished its bounties upon every effort of his pupils, for tenderness to its faults, and for generous praise of any merits which the eye of friendship might detect or create. There was also a propriety in seeking this association for a work which was prompted by love of those remains of antique beauty which he had taught me to know and to revere; which assumed that form of poetry in which he had chiefly delighted; and which, although meditated in broken hours, and at long intervals, had always mingled with the recollections of those happy days, when he first awakened within me the sense of classical grace, and of those after-seasons, when the exquisite representations of Greek Tragedy, which he superintended, made its images vital. He is gone to his rest, full of years and honours; and I cannot receive from him that sanction which he cordially gave me when I presented this Drama to my friends, now that I submit it to the judgment of a wider and an impartial circle. Death, which harmonizes the pictures of human character, found little in his to spiritualize or to soften; but if it has not enhanced the feeling of his excellences in the minds of those who felt their influence, it has enabled them to express that feeling without the semblance of flattery. It has left them free, not only to expatiate on those well-directed labours which have facilitated the access of the young to the elements of sound learning; on the solemn and persuasive tone of his pulpit eloquence; on the steadiness of his attachment to principles adopted with caution, expressed with moderation, yet maintained without a sigh at the cost of the emoluments and honours to which they were obstacles; but also to revert to that remarkable kindness of disposition which was the secret but active law of his moral being. His nature was not ameliorated, nor even characterized, but wholly moulded of Christian love to a degree of entireness of which there are few examples. He had no sense of injury but as something to be forgiven. The liberal allowance which he extended to all human frailties grew more active when they affected his own interests, and interfered with his own hopes; so that, however he might reprobate evil at a distance, as soon as it came within his sphere, he desired only to overcome it by good. Envy, Hatred, and Malice, were to him mere names—like the figures of a speech in a schoolboy's theme, or the giants in a fairy tale—phantoms which never touched him with a sense of reality. His guileless simplicity of heart was not preserved in learned seclusion, or by a constant watchfulness over the development of youthful powers, (for he found time to mingle frequently in the blameless gaieties and the stirring business of life,) but by the happy constitution of his own nature, which passion could rarely disturb, and evil had no power to stain. His system of education was animated by a portion of his own spirit: it was framed to enkindle and to quicken the best affections, and to render emulation itself subservient to the generous friendships which it promoted. His charity, in its comprehensiveness, resembled nothing less than the imagination of the greatest of our poets, embracing every thing human; shedding its light upon the just and the unjust; detecting "the soul of goodness in things evil," and stealing rigidity from virtue; bringing into gentle relief those truths which are of aspect the most benign, and those suggestions and hopes which are most full of consolation; and attaching itself, in all the various departments of life, to individuals whose childhood it had fostered; in whose merits its own images were multiplied; or whose errors and sorrows supplied the materials of its most quick and genial action. The hold which the Reading-schoolboy had upon it could not be forfeited, not even "by slights, the worst of injuries;" and when broken in fortune, deserted by relatives, and frowned on by the world, he had only to seek the hospitable roof of his old master—"claim kindred there, and have his claims allow'd." By the spirit of cordiality which breathed there, all party-differences were melted away, or, if perceived at all, served only to render tolerance more vivid; and when he who had presided there for fifty years left the scene of his generous labours as a permanent abode, it was to diffuse the serenity of a good conscience and the warmth of unchilled affections through the homes of children who were made proud as well as happy by his presence. Such was he to the last, amidst the infirmities which accidents rather than age had accumulated around him;—the gentlest of monitors, and the most considerate of sufferers—until he was withdrawn from those whose minds he had nurtured; one of whom, who has most cause for gratitude, pays this humble tribute to his memory.

T. N. T.

London, 26th May, 1836.

Persons

Adrastus, King of Argos.

Medon, High Priest of the Temple of Apollo at Argos.

Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard.

Phocion, son of Medon.

Ctesiphon and Cassander, noble Argive youths.

Ion, a foundling youth protected by Medon.

Agenor, Cleon, and Timocles, sages of Argos.

Irus, a boy, slave of Agenor.

Clemanthe, Medon's daughter.

Abra, attendant on Clemanthe.

Contents

Scene—Argos.

The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and night, and the following morning.

Act I

Scene I

The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is supposed to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early morning. The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended from the roof. Agenor resting against a column;—Irus seated on a bench at the side of the scene.

[Agenor comes forward and speaks.]

AGENOR.

Will the dawn never visit us? These hours Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear To do the work of desolating years! All distant sounds are hush'd;—the shriek of death And the survivors' wail are now unheard, As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus! I'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest, But my heart sickens for the tardy morn; Sure it is breaking;—speed and look—yet hold, Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs Above the encroaching waves, the loftiest point That stretches eastward?

IRUS.

Know it? Yes, my Lord; There often have I bless'd the opening day, Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste In happy wandering through the forests.

AGENOR.

Well, Thou art not then afraid to tread it; there The earliest streak from the unrisen sun Is to be welcomed;—tell me how it gleams, In bloody portent or in saffron hope, And hasten back to slumber.

IRUS.

I shall hasten: Believe not that thy summons broke my rest; I was not sleeping. [Exit Irus.]

AGENOR.

Heaven be with thee, child! His grateful mention of delights bestow'd On that most piteous state of servile childhood By liberal words chance-dropp'd, hath touch'd a vein Of feeling which I deem'd for ever numb'd, And, by a gush of household memories, breaks The icy casing of that thick despair Which day by day hath gather'd o'er my heart, While, basely safe, within this column'd circle, Uplifted far into the purer air And by Apollo's partial love secured, I have, in spirit, glided with the Plague As in foul darkness or in sickliest light It wafted death through Argos; and mine ears, Listening athirst for any human sound, Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain, Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale Where life was.

[Re-enter Irus.]

Are there signs of day-break?

IRUS.

None; The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom.

AGENOR.

It cannot surely be. Thine eyes are dim (No fault of thine) for want of rest, or now I look upon them near, with scalding tears. Hath care alighted on a head so young! What grief hast thou been weeping?

IRUS.

Pardon me; I never thought at such a mournful time To plead my humble sorrow in excuse Of poorly-render'd service: but my brother — Thou mayst have noted him,—a sturdy lad, With eye so merry and with foot so light That none could chide his gamesomeness—fell sick But yesterday, and died in my weak arms Ere I could seek for stouter aid: I hoped That I had taught my grief to veil its signs From thy observant care; but when I stood Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails— His favourite pastime, for he burn'd to share A seaman's hardy lot,—my tears would flow, And I forgot to dry them. But I see Cleon is walking yonder; let me call him; For sure 'twill cheer thy heart to speak with him.

AGENOR.

Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, Or, if thou wilt, to weep.

[Exit Irus.]

I envy thee The privilege, but Jupiter forfend That I should rob thee of it!

[Enter Cleon.]

CLEON.

Hail, Agenor! Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet To find thy age unstricken.

AGENOR.

Rather mourn That I am destined still to linger here In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me. I chide these sinews that are framed so tough Grief cannot palsy them; I chide the air Which round this citadel of nature breathes With sweetness not of this world; I would share The common grave of my dear countrymen, And sink to rest while all familiar things Old custom has endear'd are failing with me, Rather than shiver on in life behind them: Nor should these walls detain me from the paths Where death may be embraced, but that my word, In a rash moment plighted to our host, Forbids me to depart without his license, Which firmly he refuses.

CLEON.

Do not chide me If I rejoice to find the generous Priest Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve The treasure of thy wisdom;—nay, he trusts not To promises alone; his gates are barr'd Against thy egress:—none, indeed, may pass them Save the youth Ion, to whose earnest prayer His foster-father grants reluctant leave To visit the sad city at his will: And freely does he use the dangerous boon, Which, in my thought, the love that cherish'd him, Since he was found within the sacred grove Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant, Should have had sternness to deny.

AGENOR.

What, Ion The only inmate of this fane allow'd To seek the mournful walks where death is busy!— Ion our sometime darling, whom we prized As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismiss'd From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud To make the happy happier! Is he sent To grapple with the miseries of this time, Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears As it would perish at the touch of wrong? By no internal contest is, he train'd For such hard duty; no emotions rude Hath his clear spirit vanquish'd;—Love, the germ Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth, Expanding with its progress, as the store Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, To flush and circle in the flower. No tear Hath fill'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy When, in the evening stillness, lovely things Press'd on his soul too busily; his voice, If, in the earnestness of childish sports, Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force, As if it fear'd to break its being's law, And falter'd into music; when the forms Of guilty passion have been made to live In pictured speech, and others have wax'd loud In righteous indignation, he hath heard With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd, Struck sunlight o'er it: so his life hath flow'd From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure Alone are mirror'd; which, though shapes of ill May hover round its surface, glides in light, And takes no shadow from them.

CLEON.

Yet, methinks, Thou hast not lately met him, or a change Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder. His form appears dilated; in those eyes Where pleasure danced, a thoughtful sadness dwells; Stern purpose knits the forehead, which till now Knew not the passing wrinkle of a care: Those limbs which in their heedless motion own'd A stripling's playful happiness, are strung As if the iron hardships of the camp Had given them sturdy nurture; and his step, Its airiness of yesterday forgotten, Awakes the echoes of these desolate courts, As if a hero of gigantic mould Paced them in armour.

AGENOR.

Hope is in thy tale. This is no freak of Nature's wayward course, But work of pitying Heaven; for not in vain The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart The strengths that nerve the hero;—they are ours.

CLEON.

How can he aid us? Can he stay the pulse Of ebbing life,—arrest the infected winds, Or smite the hungry spectre of the grave?

AGENOR.

And dost thou think these breezes are our foes,— The innocent airs that used to dance around us, As if they felt the blessings they convey'd, Or that the death they bear is casual? No! Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud, Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air, Turns all the joyous melodies of earth To murmurings of doom. There is a foe Who in the glorious summit of the state Draws down the great resentment of the gods, Whom he defies to strike us;—yet his power Partakes that just infirmity which Nature Blends in the empire of her proudest sons— That it is cased within a single breast, And may be pluck'd thence by a single arm. Let but that arm, selected by the gods, Do its great office on the tyrant's life, And Argos breathes again!

CLEON.

A footstep!—hush! Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear, Would tempt another outrage: 'tis a friend— An honest though a crabbed one—Timocles: Something hath ruffled him.—Good day, Timocles! [Timocles passes in front.] He will not speak to us.

AGENOR.

But he shall speak. Timocles—nay then, thus I must enforce thee; [staying him.] Sure thou wilt not refuse a comrade's hand That may be cold ere sunset.

TIMOCLES. [giving his hand.]

Thou mayst school me; Thy years and love have license: but I own not A stripling's mastery; is 't fit, Agenor?

AGENOR.

Nay, thou must tell thy wrong; whate'er it prove, I hail thy anger as a hopeful sign, For it revives the thought of household days, When the small bickerings of friends had space To fret, and Death was not for ever nigh To frown upon Estrangement. What has moved thee?

TIMOCLES.

I blush to tell it. Weary of the night And of my life, I sought the western portal: It opened, when ascending from the stair That through the rock winds spiral from the town, Ion, the foundling cherish'd by the Priest, Stood in the entrance: with such mild command As he has often smilingly obey'd, I bade him stand aside and let me pass; When—wouldst thou think it?—in determined speech He gave me counsel to return: I press'd Impatient onward: he, with honied phrase His daring act excusing, grasp'd my arm With strength resistless; led me from the gate; Replaced its ponderous bars; and, with a look As modest as he wore in childhood, left me.

AGENOR.

And thou wilt thank him for it soon; he comes— Now hold thy angry purpose if thou canst!

[Enter Ion.]

ION.

I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore Again thy pardon. I am young in trust, And fear lest, in the earnestness of love, I stayed thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne My childish folly often,—do not frown If I have ventured with unmanner'd zeal Ta guard the ripe experiences of years From one rash moment's danger.

TIMOCLES.

Leave thy care. If I am weary of the flutterer life, Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in?

ION.

And art thou tired of being? Has the grave No terrors for thee? Hast thou sunder'd quite Those thousand meshes which old custom weayes To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films With airy lustre various? Hast subdued Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison, Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories, That change the valour of the thoughtful breast To brave dissimulation of its fears? Is Hope quench'd in thy bosom? Thou art free, And in the simple dignity of man Standest apart untempted:—do not lose The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery, Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, But use it nobly!

TIMOCLES.

What, to strike? to slay?

ION.

No!—not unless the audible voice of Heaven Call thee to that dire office; but to shed On ears abused by falsehood, truths of power In words immortal,—not such words as flash From the fierce demagogue's unthinking rage To madden for a moment and expire,— Nor such as the rapt orator imbues With warmth of facile sympathy, and moulds To mirrors radiant with fair images, To grace the noble fervour of an hour;— But words which bear the spirits of great deeds Wing'd for the Future; which the dying breath Of Freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales, And to the most enduring forms of earth Commits—to linger in the craggy shade Of the huge valley, 'neath the eagle's home, Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps, Till some heroic leader bid them wake To thrill the world with echoes!—But I talk Of things above my grasp, which strangely press Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget The duties of my youth;—pray you forgive me.

TIMOCLES.

Have I not said so?

AGENOR.

Welcome to the morn! The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches;

[As Agenor speaks, the great gates at the back of the scene open; the sea is discovered far beneath,—the dawn breaking over it; Medon, the Priest, enters attended.]

And lo! the sun is struggling with the gloom, Whose masses fill the eastern sky, and tints Its edges with dull red;—but he will triumph; Bless'd be the omen!

MEDON.

God of light and joy, Once more delight us with thy healing beams! If I may trace thy language in the clouds That wait upon thy rising, help is nigh— But help achieved in blood.

ION.

Sayst thou in blood?

MEDON.

Yes, Ion!—why, he sickens at the word, Spite of his new-born strength;—the sights of woe That he will seek have shed their paleness on him. Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow?

ION.

I pass'd the palace where the frantic king Yet holds his crimson revel, whence the roar Of desperate mirth came, mingling with the sigh Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam Of festal lamps mid spectral columns hung Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish made them ghastlier. How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones He mocks—and him the wretchedest of all?

TIMOCLES.

And canst thou pity him? Dost thou discern, Amidst his impious darings, plea for him?

ION.

Is he not childless, friendless, and a king? He's human; and some pulse of good must live Within his nature—have ye tried to wake it?

MEDON.

Yes; I believe he felt our sufferings once; When, at my strong entreaty, he dispatch'd Phocion my son to Delphos, there to seek Our cause of sorrow; but, as time dragg'd on Without his messenger's return, he grew Impatient of all counsel,—to his palace In awful mood retiring, wildly call'd The reckless of his court to share his stores And end all with him. When we dared disturb His dreadful feastings with a humble prayer That he would meet us, the poor slave, who bore The message, flew back smarting from the scourge, And mutter'd a decree that he who next Unbidden met the tyrant's glance should die.

AGENOR.

I am prepared to brave it.

CLEON.

So am I.

TIMOCLES.

And I—

ION.

O Sages, do not think my prayer Bespeaks unseemly forwardness—send me! The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh, If Heaven select it for its instrument, May shed celestial music on the breeze As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold Befits the lip of Phœbus;—ye are wise, And needed by your country; ye are fathers: I am a lone stray thing, whose little life By strangers' bounty cherish'd, like a wave That from the summer sea a wanton breeze Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking.

MEDON.

Ion, no sigh!

ION.

Forgive me if I seem'd To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall; Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear, But that high promptings, which could never rise Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead Thus boldly for the mission.

MEDON.

My brave boy! It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art call'd To this great peril, and I will not stay thee. When wilt thou be prepared to seek it?

ION.

Now. Only before I go, thus, on my knee, Let me in one word thank thee for a life Made by thy love a cloudless holiday; And O, my more than father! let me look Up to thy face as if indeed a father's, And give me a son's blessing.

MEDON.

Bless thee, son! I should be marble now; let's part at once.

ION.

If I should not return, bless Phocion from me; And, for Clemanthe—may I speak one word, One parting word with my fair playfellow?

MEDON.

If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt.

ION.

Farewell then! Your prayers wait on my steps. The arm of Heaven I feel in life or death will be around me. [Exit.]

MEDON.

O grant it be in life! Let's to the sacrifice.

[Exeunt.]

Scene II

An apartment of the Temple. Enter Clemanthe followed by Abra.

CLEMANTHE.

Is he so changed?

ABRA.

His bearing is so alter'd, That, distant, I scarce knew him for himself; But, looking in his face, I felt his smile Gracious as ever, though its sweetness wore Unwonted sorrow in it.

CLEMANTHE.

He will go To some high fortune, and forget us all, Reclaim'd (be sure of it) by noble parents; Me he forgets already; for five days, Five melancholy days, I have not seen him.

ABRA.

Thou knowest that he has privilege to range The infected city; and, 'tis said, he spends The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels Where death is most forsaken.

CLEMANTHE.

Why is this? Why should my father, niggard of the lives Of aged men, be prodigal of youth So rich in glorious prophecy as his?

ABRA.

He comes to answer for himself. I'll leave you. [Exit.]

CLEMANTHE.

Stay! Well my heart may guard its secret best By its own strength.

[Enter Ion.]

ION.

How fares my pensive sister?

CLEMANTHE.

How should I fare but ill when the pale hand Draws the black foldings of the eternal curtain Closer and closer round us—Phocion absent— And thou, forsaking all within thy home, Wilt risk thy life with strangers, in whose aid Even thou canst do but little?

ION.

It is little: But in these sharp extremities of fortune, The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter Have their own season. Tis a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarean juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 'twill fall Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again; And shed on the departing soul a sense More precious than the benison of friends About the honor'd death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels.

CLEMANTHE.

Oh, thou canst never bear these mournful offices! So blithe, so merry once! Will not the sight Of frenzied agonies unfix thy reason, Or the dumb woe congeal thee?

ION.

No, Clemanthe; They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest! If thou hadst seen the warrior when he writhed In the last grapple of his sinewy frame With conquering anguish, strive to cast a smile (And not in vain) upon his fragile wife, Waning beside him,—and, his limbs composed, The widow of the moment fix her gaze Of longing, speechless love, upon the babe, The only living thing which yet was hers, Spreading its arms for its own resting-place, Yet with attenuated hand wave off The unstricken child, and so embraceless die, Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart; Thou couldst endure the sight of selfish grief In sullenness or frenzy;—but to-day Another lot falls on me.

CLEMANTHE.

Thou wilt leave us! I read it plainly in thy alter'd mien;— Is it for ever?

ION.

That is with the gods! I go but to the palace, urged by hope, Which from afar hath darted on my soul, That to the humbleness of one like me The haughty king may listen.

CLEMANTHE.

To the palace! Knowest thou the peril—nay the certain issue That waits thee? Death!—The tyrant has decreed it, Confirmed it with an oath; and he has power To keep that oath; for, hated as he is, The reckless soldiers who partake his riot Are swift to do his bidding.

ION.

I know all; But they who call me to the work can shield me, Or make me strong to suffer.

CLEMANTHE.

Then the sword Falls on thy neck! O Gods! to think that thou, Who in the plenitude of youthful life Art now before me, ere the sun decline, Perhaps in one short hour shalt lie cold, cold, To speak, smile, bless no more!—Thou shalt not go!

ION.

Thou must not stay me, fair one; even thy father, Who (blessings on him!) loves me as his son, Yields to the will of Heaven.

CLEMANTHE.

And he can do this! I shall not bear his presence if thou fallest By his consent; so shall I be alone.

ION.

Phocion will soon return, and juster thoughts Of thy admiring father close the gap Thy old companion left behind him.

CLEMANTHE.

Never! What will to me be father, brother, friends, When thou art gone—the light of our life quench'd— Haunting like spectres of departed joy The home where thou wert dearest?

ION.

Thrill me not With words that, in their agony, suggest A hope too ravishing,—or my head will swim, And my heart faint within me.

CLEMANTHE.

Has my speech Such blessed power? I will not mourn it then, Though it hath told a secret I had borne Till death in silence:—how affection grew To this, I know not;—day succeeded day, Each fraught with the same innocent delights, Without one shock to ruffle the disguise Of sisterly regard which veil'd it well, Till thy changed mien reveal'd it to my soul, And thy great peril makes me bold to tell it. Do not despise it in me!

ION.

With deep joy Thus I receive it. Trust me, it is long Since I have learn'd to tremble midst our pleasures, Lest I should break the golden dream around me With most ungrateful rashness. I should bless The sharp and perilous duty which hath press'd A life's deliciousness into these moments,— Which here must end. I came to say farewell, And the word must be said.

CLEMANTHE.

Thou canst not mean it! Have I disclaim'd all maiden bashfulness, To tell the cherish'd secret of my soul To my soul's master, and in rich return Obtain'd the dear assurance of his love, To hear him speak that miserable word I cannot—will not echo?

ION.

Heaven has call'd me, And I have pledged my honor. When thy heart Bestow'd its preference on a friendless boy, Thou didst not image him a recreant; nor Must he prove so, by thy election crown'd. Thou hast endowed me with the right to claim Thy help through this our journey, be its course Lengthen'd to age, or in an hour to end, And now I ask it!—bid my courage hold, And with thy free approval send me forth In soul apparell'd for my office!

CLEMANTHE.

Go! I would not have thee other than thou art, Living or dying—and if thou shouldst fall—

ION.

Be sure I shall return.

CLEMANTHE.

If thou shouldst fall, I shall be happier as the affianced bride Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes— Thine—ever thine— [she faints in his arms.]

ION. [calls.]

Abra!—So best to part— [Enter Abra.] Let her have air; be near her through the day; I know thy tenderness—should ill news come Of any friend, she will require it all.

[Abra bears Clemanthe out.]

Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it!

[Exit.]

Act II

Scene I

A Terrace of the Palace. Adrastus, Crythes.

ADRASTUS.

The air breathes freshly after our long night Of glorious revelry. I'll walk awhile.

CRYTHES.

It blows across the town; dost thou not fear It bear infection with it?