_Cas._ And his genius. Some are born kings, Made up of three parts fire, so full of heaven, It sparkles at their eyes. Inferior souls Know them as soon as seen, by sure instinct, To be their lords, and naturally worship The secret god within them. _Sosib._ Sir, I humbly beg A word in private. [_To_ PTOL. _Ptol._ Madam?-- _Cas._ You may go. _Sosib._ Cleanthes, follow me. [_Exeunt_ PTOL. SOSIB. CLEAN. _Enter_ CLEONIDAS. _Cleon._ Pantheus brought me hither to attend you. _Cleom._ And thou art welcome; but thou comest too late. _Cas._ Your page of honour? _Cleon._ The mistake is easy in such a court as this, Where princes look like pages. _Cleom._ 'Tis my son. _Cas._ I must have leave to love you, royal youth; Above all nations I adore a Greek, And of all Greeks a Spartan. [_Looking on_ CLEOM. _Cleom._ What he is, And what I am, are owing to your favour. _Cas._ [_To_ CLEON.] Shall I not be your mistress? [_Looking on_ CLEOM. _Cleon._ No; for I would not get Egyptians. _Cas._ For what, sir, do you take us? _Cleon._ For what you are. When the gods moulded up the paste of man, Some of their dough was left upon their hands, For want of souls; and so they made Egyptians. They were intended for four feet; and when They come to run before our noble Spartans, They'll curse the gods for the two legs they owed them. _Cas._ Then, since you will not let me be your mistress, Would I had been your mother! [_Looking still on_ CLEOM. _Cleon._ So would not I: For then I had not been all Spartan. _Cas._ [_Aside._] He answers not my glances, stupid man! My tender looks, my languishing regards, Are like mis-aiming arrows, lost in air, And miss the flying prey. [_While she walks_, CLEOM. _and_ CLEON. _are looking on a picture hanging on the side of the Scenes. She takes out a pocket-glass, and looks in it._ These eyes, I thank the gods, Are still the same. The diamonds are not dimmed, Nor is their lustre lost in Ptolemy. Small boast: Alas! Ptolemy has no soul; 'Tis what he wants I love in Cleomenes. Perhaps he dares not think I would be loved; Then must I make the advance, and, making, lose The vast prerogative our sex enjoys, Of being courted first.--Courted! To what? To our own wishes: There's the point; but still, To speak our wishes first;--forbid it, pride, Forbid it, modesty!--True; they forbid it, But nature does not. When we are athirst, Or hungry, will imperious nature stay? Not eat nor drink, before 'tis bid fall on?-- Well, sex, if this must be, That I must not invite, I may at least be suffered To lay some kind occasion in his way, That, if he dare but speak, he may succeed.