_Cœn._ Your sick imagination feigns all this: Now hear a truth, and wonder. _Cleom._ Has not the conqueror been at Sparta? _Cœn._ Yes. _Cleom._ Nay, then I know what follows victory. _Panth._ You interrupt, as if you would not know. _Cœn._ Then,--if you will imagine,--think some king, Who loved his people, took a peaceful progress To some far distant place of his dominions; Smiled on his subjects, as he rode in triumph, And strewed his plenty, wheresoe'er he passed. Nay, raise your thoughts yet higher;--think some deity, Some better Ceres, drawn along the sky By gentle dragons, scattered, as she flew, Her fruitful grains upon the teeming ground, And bade new harvests rise. _Cleom._ Do we dream, Pantheus? _Panth._ No, sure; we are awake: but 'tis he, dreams. _Cœn._ The soldiers marched, as in procession, slow, And entered Sparta like a choir of priests, As if they feared to tread on holy ground. No noise was heard; no voice, but of the crier, Proclaiming peace and liberty to Sparta. At that, a peal of loud applause rang out, And thinned the air, till even the birds fell down Upon the shouters' heads: the shops flew open, And all the busy trades renewed their tasks: No law was changed, no custom was controuled; That had Lycurgus lived, or you returned, So Sparta would have shown. _Panth._ If this be true,---- _Cleom._ If this indeed be true, Then farewell, Sparta. _Cœn._ Hear me out.-- He reaped no fruit of conquest but their blessings; Nor staid three days in Sparta; summoned thence, With sudden news, that a barbarian host Was entered Macedonia, And, like a mighty deluge rolling on, Swept all before them. Thus alarmed, he left us; Marched homeward; met, and fought them; nay, and lived To say, the field is mine! _Panth._ Died of his wounds? _Cœn._ Not so; but, straining loud his feeble voice To animate his soldiers, broke a vein, And, in a purple vomit, poured his soul. _Panth._ O blessed, blessed Cœnus, for this happy news! [_Embraces_ CŒNUS. _Cleom._ O, wretch! O, born to all misfortunes! cursed, Cursed Cleomenes! _Panth._ How's this!--Are these the thanks you pay the gods, Who freed your Sparta, and removed, by death, Your only fatal foe? _Cleom._ O, blind Pantheus! Canst thou not find, that, had I but deferred Sellasia's fight three days, but three short days, Fate then had fought my battle with Antigonus; And I, not fighting, had been still a king? _Panth._ That's true; but that you knew not when you fought. _Cleom._ Why, therefore, once again cursed Cleomenes! 'Tis not to be endured, That fate of empires, and the fall of kings, Should turn on flying hours, and catch of moments.