hips averse.
May storms and tempests follow in their rear,
And dash their fleet upon the Lybian shore!

_Enter CALIPPUS._

_Cal._ My liege, Timoleon, where the harbour opens,
Has storm'd the forts, and even now his fleet
Pursues its course, and steers athwart the bay.

_Dio._ Ruin impends; and yet, if fall it must,
I bear a mind to meet it undismay'd,
Unconquer'd ev'n by Fate.

_Cal._ Through ev'ry street
Despair and terror fly. A panic spreads
From man to man, and superstition sees
Jove arm'd with thunder, and the gods against us.

_Dio._ With sacred rites their wrath must be appeas'd.
Let instant victims at the altar bleed:
Let incense roll its fragrant clouds to Heav'n,
And pious matrons, and the virgin train,
In slow procession to the temple bear
The image of their gods.
The solemn sacrifice, the virgin throng,
Will gain the popular belief, and kindle
In the fierce soldiery religious rage.
Away, my friends, prepare the sacred rites.

[_Exeunt CALIPPUS, &c._

Philotas, thou draw near: how fares your pris'ner?
Has he yet breath'd his last?

_Phil._ Life ebbs apace;
To-morrow's sun sees him a breathless corse.

_Dio._ Curse on his ling'ring pangs! Sicilia's crown
No more shall deck his brow; and if the sand
Still loiter in the glass, thy hand, my friend,
May shake it thence.

_Phil._ It shall, dread sir; that task
Leave to thy faithful servant.

_Dio._ Oh! Philotas,
Thou little know'st the cares, the pangs of empire.
The ermin'd pride, the purple that adorns
A conqueror's breast, but serves, my friend, to hide
A heart that's torn, that's mangled with remorse.
Each object round me wakens horrid doubts;
The flatt'ring train, the sentinel that guards me,
The slave that waits, all give some new alarm,
And from the means of safety dangers rise.
Ev'n victory itself plants anguish here,
And round my laurels the fell serpent twines.

_Phil._ Would Dionysius abdicate his crown,
And sue for terms of peace?

_Dio._ Detested thought!
No, though ambition teem with countless ills,
It still has charms of pow'r to fire the soul.
Though horrors multiply around my head,
I will oppose them all. The pomp of sacrifice,
But now ordain'd, is mockery to Heav'n.
'Tis vain, 'tis fruitless; then let daring guilt
Be my inspirer, and consummate all.
Where are those Greeks, the captives of my sword,
Whose desperate valour rush'd within our walls,
Fought near our person, and the pointed lance
Aim'd at my breast?