_Clean._ Must he die, madam, Or be reserved for further punishment, At Ptolemy's return? _Cas._ Why ask you that? _Clean._ Because his destiny, for aught I find, Depends on you. Think first, and then command. _Cas._ Know then, that his last thread is on the distaff, And I can cut it now. _Clean._ And are resolved? _Cas._ I only said I can, and I can save.-- Disarm, and hurt him not. _Clean._ Once more, your sword. _Cleom._ Stand off those villains;--though I fear them not, Yet cowards are offensive to my sight; Nor shall they see me do an act, that looks Below the courage of a Spartan king. _Cas._ Cleanthes, may I trust your faith? _Clean._ You may. _Cas._ Be gone, and wait my call. [_Exeunt Guards._ _Cleom._ Cleanthes! Still my friend; for such I hold thee, Though this bad woman says thou art my spy; I cannot give a greater proof than this, That I believe her not: [_Gives him his Sword._ If thou art false, 'Tis in thy power to show it safely, now; And compass that by treason, which, in arms, Nor thou, nor any man alive, can force. Remember still, I gave it to a friend; For life and death are equal in themselves; That, which would cast the balance, is thy falsehood, To make my death more wretched. _Clean._ Then you may think me that, which you call false; But duty to my father-- _Cleom._ Say no more! I would not curse thee, for thou wert my friend. I think thee still as honest as thou couldst; Impenetrably good; but, like Achilles, Thou hadst a soft Egyptian heel undipt, And that has made thee mortal. _Cas._ Cleanthes, thou hast well approved thy faith; And, as this palace is thy government, On utmost peril of thy life secure him.-- One farther word-- [_Whispers._ [_Exit_ CLEAN. _looking concernedly on_ CLEOM. _Cleom._ So guilty as thou art, and canst thou look On him thou hast betrayed?--Go, take thy hire, Which thou hast dearly purchased, and be great. _Cas._ For you, brave sir, as you have given my hopes But air to feed on, air shall be your food; No bread shall enter these forbidden doors. Thin, hungry diet, I confess; but still The liker Spartan fare. Keen appetites, And quick digestion, wait on you and yours. _Cleom._ O mix not innocence and guilt together! What love have they refused, or how offended? Be just, though you are cruel; or, be kind, And punish me alone. _Cas._ There nature works; Then there I'll stab thee in thy tender part. [_Shrieks of Women within._ _Cleom._ What dismal cries are those?