CRATESICLEA, _Mother to_ CLEOMENES. CLEORA, CLEOMENES'_s_ _second Wife_. CASSANDRA, MISTRESS TO _Ptolemy_. _Priests of Apis. A Mariner. Egyptians. Guards_ CLEOMENES, THE SPARTAN HERO. ACT I. SCENE I.--_The Sea-Port of Alexandria._ _Enter_ CLEOMENES. _Cleom._ Dejected! no, it never shall be said, That fate had power upon a Spartan soul: My mind on its own centre stands unmoved, And stable, as the fabric of the world, Propt on itself; still I am Cleomenes. I fought the battle bravely, which I lost; And lost it, but to Macedonians, The successors of those who conquered Asia. 'Twas for a cause too, such a cause I fought; Unbounded empire hung upon my sword: Greece, like a lovely heifer, stood in view, To see the rival bulls each other gore, But wished the conquest mine. I fled; and yet I languish not in exile; But here in Egypt whet my blunted horns, And meditate new fights, and chew my loss. Ah! why, ye gods, must Cleomenes wait On this effeminate, luxurious court, For tardy helps of base Egyptian bands? Why have not I, whose individual mind Would ask a nation of such souls to inform it, Why have not I ten thousand hands to fight It all myself, and make the work my own? _Enter_ CRATESICLEA, CLEORA, _and_ CLEONIDAS. _Crat._ Is this well done? or like the king of Sparta? Or like my son? to waste your time in tears? What have you done, that you avoid mankind, And sculk in corners like a guilty slave? _Cleor._ We have been seeking you, my dearest lord, Through all the shady walks and dark retreats Of secret care; that false deluding friend, That only sooths and keeps you company, To prey upon your last remains of life. _Cleom._ I've heard you. [_Sighs._ _Crat._ Hear her still; she tells you true. This melancholy flatters, but unmans you. What is it else, but penury of soul, A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind, That locks up all the vigour to attempt, By barely crying,--'tis impossible! _Cleom._ You both mistake me:--That I grieve, 'tis true; But 'tis a grief of fury, not despair! And if a manly drop or two fall down, It scalds along my cheeks, like the green wood, That, sputtering in the flame, works outward into tears. _Cleor._ Why would you leave me then, and be alone? Indeed it was a churlish kind of sorrow, Indeed it was, to engross it all yourself, And not permit me to endure my share. Think you, because I am of tender mould, I cannot suffer and partake your burdens? Alas! I suffer more by not partaking.