Of choice, or does our good Lysimachus,

7

7

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.

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