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Ah, wrestler mine, wherefore, unconquer'd yet,
Should Death defeat you with a felon fall?
Live long and happy, train'd to such true health
That all excess seem alien as disease.
In generous emulation of your peers
Using the good things Gods have given to men
And winning women worthier of love
Than I, poor leaf upon the winds of fate.
Flavian.(Rising, rushes off left):
A laurel leaf for garland of the God,
Too proud to wreathe a merely mortal brow!
(Callixena enters from Temple right.)
Callixena.(To Theonöe):
Sibyl, reclaim'd by service of your king
Assume the choric robe, the crown of bays,
The wand of budded laurel in your hand
Sprinkl'd with lustral water of His Spring.
