Classic Poem

Cratander, Hippias, Phocion.

Crat. Vrge me no more, I am sure my Countrey
Requires not Perjury.
Pho. Ought any word
Be kept with Enemies? no path is foule
That leades to liberty.
Crat. O Phocion!
Such men as you have made our Grecian faith
Become a Proverbe t'expresse Treachery.
An Oath's the same in Persia, and in Greece:
And bindes alike in either.
Hip. But consider
Met're thrall'd and yoak'd; the hard gaines of our sweat
Must be sent in to serve their Luxury.
Tribute, and taxe, and payment, will still keepe us
As in a siege: to take the Aire perhaps
Will be a charge unto us.
Pho. Nor is't Ephesus
That only dreades this slavery; Claros too,
And Colophon , nay Magnesia , and others
That joyn'd i'th' warre do feare a share i'th' Tyranny.
Crat. Your forces are so weakned, that you cannot
Regaine a perfect Liberty: your Friends
Begin to fall off too: all that you can
Expect now, is to settle these your evills,
And live protected as a weakned friend
Under the Persian shelter: still preserving
Your Lawes and Liberties inviolate.
A thing perhaps yet rather to be wish'd for,
Then compass'd.
Hip. Yet methinkes you might procure it,
Having such command.
Crat. What may be done in so
Short space, shall all be to your good: goe then
And deale discreetly with the Army: tell them
The tempest that is falling on their head,
Unlesse the Persian shield them. When you have
Perswaded them to this, conduct your Forces
Towards Arsamnes Castle, where the Queene,
And Ladyes now expect me. But be sure
You come not within sight of Sardis .
Pho. Why?
Shall we not march beyond the Fronteirs then?
Crat. By no meanes, for you'le cut off all retreat.
Now, when you see the numerous Persian come,
You may securely fly without the losse
Of any; this will quell the future rising
Of those, whose frowardnesse is not content
Either with th'Calme or Tempest of Affaires.
We must comply with Fortune, now wee're conquer'd.
Permit the rest unto the Gods and me.
Pho. Hip. Successe attend it.
Crat. So; my next care now
Must be t' avoide those Slaves, who, I o'reheard,
Have a designe upon my life. But let
Even the plotting Destinies contrive,
And be themselves of Councell, all their malice
Shall only shew an idle fruitlesse Hate,
Whiles Wisedome takes the upper hand of Fate.