Gycia. Lewis Morris
Nay, speak; what is it?
I know how wise thy thought.
Lys.
My liege, it chances
The Archon Lamachus is old and spent.
He has an only child, a daughter, Gycia,
The treasure of his age, who now blooms forth
In early maidenhood. The girl is fair
As is a morn in springtide; and her father
A king in all but name, such reverence
His citizens accord him. Were it not well
The Prince Asander should contract himself
In marriage to this girl, and take the strength
Of Cherson for her dowry, and the power
Of their strong fleets and practised arms to thrust
The invading savage backward?
King.
Nay, my lord;
No more of this, I pray. There is no tribe
Of all the blighting locust swarms of war,
Which sweep our wasted fields, I would not rather
Take to my heart and cherish than these vipers.
Dost thou forget, my lord, how of old time,
In the brave days of good Sauromatus,
These venomous townsmen, shamelessly allied
With the barbarian hosts, brought us to ruin;
Or, with the failing force of Cæsar leagued,
By subtle devilish enginery of war,
Robbed Bosphorus of its own, when, but for them,
Byzantium were our prey, and all its might,
And we Rome's masters? Nay; I swear to thee,
I would rather see the Prince dead at my feet,
I would rather see our loved State sunk and lost,
Than know my boy, the sole heir of my crown,
The sole hope of my people, taken and noosed
By this proud upstart girl. Speak not of it;
Ruin were better far.
Lys.
My liege, I bear
No greater favour to these insolent townsmen
Than thou thyself. I, who have fought with them
From my first youth—who saw my father slain,
Not in fair fight, pierced through by honest steel,
But unawares, struck by some villanous engine,
Which, armed with inextinguishable fire,
Flew hissing from the walls and slew at once
Coward and brave alike; I, whose young brother,
The stripling who to me was as a son,
Taken in some sally, languished till he died,
Chained in their dungeons' depths;—must I not hate them
With hate as deep as hell? And yet I know
There is no other way than that Asander
Should wed this woman. This alone can staunch
The bleeding wounds of the State.
King.
Lysimachus,
I am old; my will is weak, my body bent,
Not more than is my mind; I cannot reason.
But hark! I hear the ring of coursers' feet
Bespeak Asander coming. What an air
Of youth and morning breathes round him, and brings
A light of hope again!
Enter Asander from the chase.
Asan. My dearest sire and King, art thou thus grave
Of choice, or does our good Lysimachus,
Bringing unwonted loads of carking care,
O'ercloud thy brow? I prithee, father, fret not;
There is no cloud of care I yet have known—
And I am now a man, and have my cares—
Which the fresh breath of morn, the hungry chase,
The echoing horn, the jocund choir of tongues,
Or joy of some bold enterprise of war,
When the swift squadrons smite the echoing plains,
Scattering the stubborn spearmen, may not break,
As does the sun the mists. Nay, look not grave;
My youth is strong enough for any burden
Fortune can set on me.
King.
Couldst thou, Asander,
Consent to serve the State, if it should bid thee
Wed without love?
Asan.
What, father, is that all?
I do not know this tertian 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.