_Panth._ Now, by my soul, 'tis lazy wickedness, To rail at heaven, and not to help yourself; Heaven's but too kind, in offering you the means. Your fate, once more, is laid upon the anvil; Now pluck up all the Spartan in your soul, Now stretch at every stroke, and hammer out A new, and nobler fortune; Else may the peaceful ground restore the dead, And give up old Antigonus again. _Cleom._ I thank thee; thou hast added flame to fury. The Spartan genius shall once more be roused; Our household gods, that droop upon our hearths, Each from his venerable face shall brush The Macedonian soot, and shine again. _Panth._ Now you confess the Spartan. _Cleom._ Haste, Pantheus! I struggle like the priestess with a god; With that oppressing god, that works her soul. Haste to Cleanthes, my Egyptian friend, That only man that Egypt ever made; He's my Lucina. Say, my friendship wants him, To help me bring to light a manly birth; Which to the wondering world I shall disclose, Or, if he fail me, perish in my throes. [_Exeunt._ ACT II.--SCENE I. _Enter_ CLEOMENES, CLEANTHES, _and_ PANTHEUS. _Cleom._ The king sent for me, say'st thou, and to council! _Clean._ And I was coming to you, on that message, Just when I met Pantheus. _Panth._ Good omen, sir, of some intended good. Your fortune mends; she reconciles apace, When Egypt makes the advances. _Cleom._ Rise a prophet!-- For since his father's death, this Ptolemy Has minded me no more Than boys their last year's gewgaws. Petition on petition, prayer on prayer, For aid, or free dismission, all unanswered, As Cleomenes were not worth his thought; Or he, that god, which Epicurus dreamt, Disclaiming care, and lolling on a cloud. _Panth._ At length, it seems, it pleases him to wake. _Clean._ Yes, for himself, not you; he's drenched too deep, To wake on any call, but his own danger. My father, his wise pilot, has observed The face of heaven, and sees a gathering storm; I know not from what quarter; but it threatens, And, while it threats, he wants such hands as yours; But when 'tis o'er, the thoughtless king returns To native sloth, shifts sides, and slumbers on. _Panth._ Sure, he'll remember to reward those hands, That helped him from the plunge. _Clean._ You dream, Pantheus, Of former times, when gratitude was virtue. Reward him! Yes, like Æsop's snake the wretch, That warmed him in his bosom. We are tools, Vile abject things, created for his use, As beasts for men; as oxen, draw the yoke. And then are sacrificed. _Cleom._ I would not use him so. _Clean._ You are not Ptolemy; Nor is he Cleomenes.