_Cleom._ Then shall I hear of thee once more, dear country! I fear too soon: shall hear how proud Antigonus Led o'er Eurota's banks his conquering troops, And first to wondering Sparta shewed a king, A king, that was not hers: Then I shall hear of sacrilege and murders, And fires, and rapes on matrons, and on maids. _Panth._ Such news we must expect. _Cleom._ O happy ghosts Of those that fell in the last fatal fight, And lived not to survive their country's loss! Base as I was, I should have fallen there too; But first have raised a mountain of the dead, To choke their way to Sparta. _Panth._ Thus I knew Your blood would boil, and therefore I delayed So long to tell you Cœnus was arrived. _Cleom._ Go, My mother, my Cleora, and my boy. [_Stroking_ CLEON. Your ears would be polluted with such ills, Which I must try to mollify, before They reach your tender hearing. _Cleor._ I obey you. But let not grief disorder you too much For what you lost. For me, while I have you, and you are kind, I ask no more of heaven. _Cleon._ I go too, Because my king and father bids me go; Else, I have sternness in my soul enough To hear of murders, rapes, and sacrilege: For those are soldiers' work; and I would hear them, To spur me to revenge. [_Exeunt_ CRAT. CLEORA, _and_ CLEON. _Panth._ He's here already; Now bear it like yourself. _Cleom._ I'm armed against it. _Enter_ CŒNUS; _salutes_ CLEOMENES. _Cœn._ I heard, sir, you were refuged in this court, And come to beg a favour. _Cleom._ Good; a favour! Sure, thou mistakest me for a king of Egypt, And think'st I govern here? _Cœn._ You're Cleomenes. _Cleom._ No thanks to heaven for that. I should have died, And then I had not been this Cleomenes. _Panth._ You promised patience, sir. _Cleom._ Thou art a scurvy monitor; I am patient: Do I foam at lips, Or stare at eyes? Methinks, I am wondrous patient: Now, thou shalt see how I can swallow gall.-- I pr'ythee, gentle Cœnus, tell the story [_Speaking softly._ Of ruined Sparta; leave no circumstance Untold, of all their woes; and I will hear thee, As unconcerned, as if thou toldst a tale Of ruined Troy. I pr'ythee, tell us how The victors robbed the shrines, polluted temples, Ransacked each wealthy house:--No, spare me that; Poor honest Sparta had no wealth to lose. But [_Raises his voice._] when thou com'st to tell of matrons ravished, And virgins forced, then raise thy voice, And let me hear their howlings, And dreadful shrieks, as in the act of rape. _Panth._ Again you are distempered. _Cleom._ [_Softly._] Peace! I am not. I was but teaching him to grace his tale With decent horror.