_Cleo_. Oh, Villain, since thou’st punish’d _Clemanthis_, Punish the unhappy _Cleomena_ too, And take her Life who came to have taken thine. _Qu_. ‘Tis not _Clemanthis_, but my _Cleomena_-- With whom _Thersander_ fights--ah, cruel Child; [_They carry her off_. _Ther_. Oh, whither, whither do you bear my Goddess? Return, and here resign your sacred Load, That whilst’t has Life it may behold the Sacrifice That I will make of this wild wretched Man That has so much offended--Disobey’d! --My Arms, my Arms, Lysander, mount me strait, And let me force the disobedient Troops; Those Coward-Slaves that could behold her bleed, And not revenge her on the Murderer: Quickly my Arms, kill, burn, and scatter all; Whilst ‘midst the Ruins of the World I fall. [_The_ Scythian _Guards carry him off by force. Enter_ Ismenes _with his Sword. They all descend_. _Ism_. Still thus defeated and outstript by Fate, Resolv’d betimes, but sallied out too late; Fortune and Love are equally unkind: --Who can resist those mighty Powers combin’d? [_Exeunt_. SCENE III. _A Prison_. _Enter_ Orsames, Geron. _Ger_. May I not know what ‘tis afflicts you so? You were not wont to hide your Soul from me. _Ors_. Nor wou’d I now, knew I but how to tell thee; Oh, _Geron_, thou hast hitherto so frighted me With thoughts of Death, by Stories which thou tell’st Of future Punishment i’th’ other World, That now I find thou’st brought me to endure Those Ills from Heaven thou say’st our Sins procure. There’s not a little God of all the Number That does not exercise his Arts on me, And practise Power, which by my suffering He grows more mighty in--I’ll not endure it. _Ger_. Why not, as well as I? _Ors_. Thou may’st do what thou wilt; but there’s a Difference (As vast as ‘twixt the Sun and lesser Lights) Between thy Soul and mine; Thou canst contented sit whole Days together, And entertain thy Lute, that dull Companion, Till duller Sleep does silence it and thee: But I, whose active Soul despise that drousy God, Can ever dare him in his height of Power: Then when he ties thee to thy lazy Couch, Where thou’rt so far from Sense, thou’st lost thy Soul; Even then, my Geron, my divertive Fancy Possesses me, beyond thy waking Thought-- But, _Geron_, all was but an airy Dream; I wak’d, and found my self a thing like thee. _Ger_. What was your Dream?