_Clean._ Let me be proud; and pardon thou my pride. Base, worthless Egypt has no other pawn, To counter-balance these, but only me. 'Twas on such terms alone I durst propose it. Shalt thou leave these, And I not leave a father, whom I love? Come, come, it must be so. We'll give each other all we have besides; And then we shall be even.--Here they are! I leave thee. Break those tender ties of nature, As gently as thou canst; they must be broken. [_Going, returns._ But, when thou seest Cassandra, curb thy spleen; Seem to receive the kindness as from her; And, if thou think'st I love thee, for my sake, Remembering me, strive to forget my father. [_Exit_ CLEAN. _Enter_ CLEORA, CRATESICLEA, _and_ CLEONIDAS. _Cleom._ But how can I sustain to tell them this, [_Walking from them._ Even in the gentlest terms! There are not words in any tongue so soft As I would use: the gods must have a new one, If they would have me speak. _Crat._ How, king of Sparta! When your fortune smiles, A glorious sunshine, and a gloomy soul? The gods love chearfulness, when they are kind; They think their gifts despised, and thrown away On sullen thankless hearts. _Cleor._ I hear, my dearest lord, that we shall go. _Cleom._ Go! _Cleon._ What a mournful echo makes my father! By Mars, he stifles _go_ upon his tongue, And kills the joyful sound; he speaks so low, That heaven must listen, if it hear his thanks. _Cleom._ Yes, I shall go; but how? _Cleor._ With Egypt's aid. _Cleon._ With his own soul and sword, a thousand strong; And worth ten Egypts, and their ten thousand gods. _Crat._ There's something more in this, than what we guess; Some secret anguish rolls within his breast, That shakes him like an earthquake, which he presses, And will not give it vent: I know him well. He blushes, and would speak, and wants a voice; And stares and gapes like a forbidden ghost, Till he be spoke to first.--Tell me, my son! _Cleom._ Mother, I will.--And yet I cannot neither. [_Aside._ Mother! that word has struck me dumb again: For, how can I say mother, and propound To leave her here behind, who gave me life? Mother! and wife! and son! the names that nature Most loves to speak, are banished from my mouth. _Cleor._ Tell us, my love, the king has changed his mind, And has refused us leave; for we can bear it: Egypt is Greece to me, while you are here. _Cleom._ Oh I would speak! But, oh! you speak so kindly, That you forbid my speech: You call me love. _Cleor._ Was that too kind a word? _Cleom._ It was to me: I am a mere barbarian, A brute, a stock, for I have no relations, Or shortly shall have none. _Cleor._ Then we must die!