_Ptol._ He dies, that's out of doubt. _Cleom._ Your brother, sir! _Ptol._ Why do you ask that question? _Cleom._ Because I had a brother, (Oh grief to say I had, and have not now!) Wise, valiant, temperate; and, in short, a Spartan; Had all the virtues, which your counsellor Imputed to your brother as his crimes. He loved me well; so well, he could but die, To shew he loved me better than his life. He lost it for me in Sellasia's field; And went the greatest ghost of all our name, That ever had a brother, or a king[42]. _Sosib._ Wipe off the tears that stand upon your eyes; Good nature works too far. Kings have no brothers, What men call such, are rivals of their crowns; Yours timed his death, so as to merit grief. Who knows, but he laid in, by that last action, The means to have betrayed you, had he lived? _Cleom._ I would say something; but I curb my passion, Because thou art the father to my friend-- To you, sir, this: If you condemn your brother, [_To_ PTOL. Only because he's bounteous, great, and brave,-- Know, you condemn those virtues, own you want them. Had you a thousand brothers, such as he, You ought to shew you are above them all, By daring to reward, and cherish them, As bucklers of your crown in time of war, And in soft peace, the jewels that adorn it. _Cas._ I stand corrected, sir; he ought to live. _Ptol._ I think so too. _Sosib._ I do not wish his death, Howe'er I seemed to give that rugged counsel. _Clean._ Well said again, father! Comply, comply; Follow the sun, true shadow. [_Aside._ _Sosib._ I only wish my master may be safe; But there are mercenaries in the army, Three thousand Greeks, the flower of all our troops, Like wolves indeed among Egyptian lambs; If these revolt--(I do not say they will) But if your brother please to take the crown, And be not good enough to let you reign, Those Greeks, where'er they go, will turn the scale. _Ptol._ What think you, Cleomenes? _Cleom._ He says true. _Ptol._ Then Magas must not live. _Cleom._ That does not follow. Fear not those mercenaries: they are mine, Devoted to my interest, commanded by my nod: They are my limbs of war, and I their soul. Were they in arms against you at your gates, High in their rage, and fixed upon the spoil, Should I say,--Hold!--nay, should I only frown, They could not bear my eyes; but, awed and mastered, Like lions to their keepers, would couch and fawn, And disobey their hunger. _Ptol._ Wondrous man! [_Embraces him._ How I admire thy virtue!