_Cleon._ We must; and welcome death. _Crat._ To save his life. _Cleom._ The gods forbid that you should die for me! No, you may live; but I must die thrice over, For I must leave you here, or must not go: These are the hard conditions offered me. _Crat._ Then Egypt would have pledges: Is this all? _Cleom._ Yes, and a mighty all: 'Tis all I have. But I propose it not; remember that. _Crat._ I do; and therefore I propose it first, To save this virtuous shame, this good confusion, That would not let you speak. _Cleom._ Oh! I could almost think you love me not, You granted me so quick, so willingly, What I,--bear witness, heaven,--was slow to ask, And would be loth to have. _Cleor._ I cannot leave you. _Cleom._ I was but wishing thou wouldst draw me back, And now, I cannot go. _Crat._ Are you turned woman? No more of this fond stuff. _Cleon._ Shall I be left to gather rust in Egypt? A glue of sloth to stick to my young pinions, And mar their flight; habitual cowardice? No; I must learn my stubborn trade of war From you alone, and envy you betimes. _Cleom._ But the conditions! Oh these hard conditions! That such a spirit must be left behind, Untaught, unfashioned by a father's hands! A spirit fit to start into an empire, And look the world to law. _Crat._ No more debating, for I see the pinch. He must be left, and so must she and I, For we are but your softnesses, my son; The incumbrances and luggage of the war. Fight for us, and redeem us, if you please; For there we are your clogs of virtue; here, The spurs of your return. _Cleom._ I thank you, mother; Once more you have erected me to man, And set me upright, with my face to heaven. The woman and the boy be yours awhile: The war be mine alone! _Crat._ There spoke the Spartan king: Think not on us. _Cleom._ I wonnot. _Cleor._ Not in prayers! _Cleon._ In prayers! That's poor, As if the gods were thoughtless of their work. Think on us, when you fight; and when you make A lusty stroke, cry out,--That's for my boy. _Crat._ Dispose this mouldering carcase as you please, Ere lingering age or sickness wear it out, Unprofitable then for Sparta's good. Be chearful, fight it well, and all the rest Leave to the gods and fortune. _Cleom._ If they fail me, Theirs be the fault, for fate is theirs alone: My virtue, fame, and honour are my own. [_Exeunt._ ACT IV. SCENE I.--_An Antechamber of_ CASSANDRA'S _Lodging_. _Enter_ PTOLEMY, SOSIBIUS, CŒNUS, _and_ CASSANDRA. _Sosib._ So, so,--it works; now, mistress, sit you fast. [_Aside._ _Ptol._ Humph, whores and catamites! Were those his words? _Cœn._ Upon my life they were. _Ptol._ Whom should he mean by those unmannered terms? Cassandra, can you guess?