_Timol._ O blind men! If you refuse the first means that is offer'd To give you health, no hope's left to recover Your desperate sickness. Do you prize your muck Above your liberties? and rather choose To be made bondmen, than to part with that To which already you are slaves? Or can it Be probable, in your flattering apprehensions, You can capitulate with the conquerors, And keep that yours which they come to possess, And, while you kneel in vain, will ravish from you? --But take your own ways; brood upon your gold. Sacrifice to your idol, and preserve The prey entire, and merit the report Of careful stewards: yield a just account To your proud masters, who, with whips of iron, Will force you to give up what you conceal, Or tear it from your throats: adorn your walls With Persian hangings wrought of gold and pearl; Cover the floors on which they are to tread With costly Median silks; perfume the rooms With cassia and amber, where they are To feast and revel; while, like servile grooms, You wait upon their trenchers: feed their eyes With massy plate, until your cupboards crack With the weight that they sustain; and, to perfect Their entertainment, offer up your sons And able men for slaves; while you, that are Unfit for labour, are spurn'd out to starve, Unpitied, in some desert, no friend by, Whose sorrow may spare one compassionate tear In the remembrance of what once you were. _Leost._ The blood turns. _Timag._ Observe how old Cleon shakes, As if in picture he had shown him what He was to suffer. _Coris._ I am sick: the man Speaks poniards and diseases. _Olymp._ O my doctor! I never shall recover. _Cleo._ [_coming forward._] If a virgin, Whose speech was ever yet usher'd with fear, One knowing modesty and humble silence To be the choicest ornaments of our sex, In the presence of so many reverend men Struck dumb with terror and astonishment, Presume to clothe her thought in vocal sounds, Let her find pardon. First to you, great sir, A bashful maid's thanks, and her zealous prayers Wing'd with pure innocence, bearing them to heaven, For all prosperity that the gods can give To one whose piety must exact their care, Thus low I offer. _Timol._ 'Tis a happy omen. Rise, blest one, and speak boldly. On my virtue, I am thy warrant from so clear a spring Sweet rivers ever flow.