fever, love,
Of which too oft my comrades groan and sigh,
This green-sick blight, which turns a lusty soldier
To a hysterical girl. Wed without love?
One day I needs must wed, though love I shall not.
And if it were indeed to serve the State,
Nay, if 'twould smooth one wrinkle from thy brow,
Why, it might be to-morrow. Tell me, father,
Who is this paragon that thou designest
Shall call me husband? Some barbarian damsel
Reared on mare's milk, and nurtured in a tent
In Scythia? Well, 'twere better than to mate
With some great lady from the Imperial Court,
Part tigress and all wanton. I care not;
Or if the scheme miscarry, I care not.
Tell me, good father.

_King._ Wouldst thou wed, Asander,
If 'twere to save the State, a Greek from Cherson?

_Asan._ From Cherson? Nay, my liege; that were too much.
A girl from out that cockatrice's den--
Take such a one to wife? I would liefer take
A viper to my breast! Nay, nay, you jest,
My father, for you hate this low-born crew,
Grown gross by huckstering ways and sordid craft--
Ay, more than I.

_King._ It is no jest, my son.
Our good Lysimachus will tell thee all
Our need and whence it comes.

_Lys._ My gracious Prince,
Thus stands the case, no otherwise. Our foes
Press closer year by year, our widespread plains
Are ravaged, and our bare, unpeopled fields
Breed scantier levies; while the treasury
Stands empty, and we have not means to buy
The force that might resist them. Nought but ruin,
Speedy, inevitable, can await
Our failing Bosphorus' unaided strength,
Unless some potent rich ally should join
Our weakness to her might. None other is there
To which to look but Cherson; and I know,
From trusty friends among them, that even now,
Perchance this very day, an embassy
Comes to us with design that we should sink
Our old traditional hate in the new bonds
Which Hymen binds together. For the girl
Gycia, the daughter of old Lamachus,
Their foremost man, there comes but one report--
That she is fair as good.

_Asan._ My lord, I pray you,
Waste not good breath. If I must sell myself,
It matters not if she be fair or foul,
Angel or doubly damned; hating the race,
Men, maidens, young and old, I would blight my life
To save my country.

_King._ Thanks, my dearest son.
There spake a patri