_Cleon._ I'll hold my breath, And keep my soul a prisoner in my body; There let it creep and wander in the dark, Till, tired to find no outlet, it retreats Into my Spartan heart, and there lies pleased; So, we two are provided.--Sir, your choice? [_To_ CLEOM. _Cleom._ Not this dispatch, for we may die at leisure. This famine has a sharp and meagre face: 'Tis death in an undress of skin and bone; Where age and youth, their land-mark ta'en away, Look all one common furrow. _Crat._ Yet you chuse it, To please our foes; that, when they view our skeletons, And find them all alike, they may cry out,-- Look how these dull obedient Spartans died, Just as we wished, as we prescribed their death, And durst not take a nobler, nearer way! _Cleom._ Not so; but that we durst not tempt the gods, To break their images without their leave. The moment ere Cassandra came, I had A note without a name, the hand unknown, That bade me not despair, but still hope well. Then die not yet; For heaven has means to free us; if not me, Yet these, and you. I am the hunted stag, Whose life may ransom yours. _Crat._ No more of that: I find your distant drift,--to die alone; An unkind accusation of us all, As if we durst not die; I'll not survive you. _Panth._ Nor I. _Cleon._ Nor I. _Cleom._ But hear my reasons.-- _Enter_ CLEORA, _in a black Veil_. Ha, what shadow's this! this, that can glide through walls, Or pass its subtile limbs through bolts and bars! Black, too! like what it represents, our fate. _Cleor._ Too true a shadow I, and you the substance. [_Lifts up her Veil._ _Omnes._ Cleora! _Cleom._ Thus let me grow again to thee, Too close for fate to sever! Or let death find me in these dear, dear arms; And, looking on thee, spare my better part, And take me willing hence. _Crat._ What! are you dreaming, son, with eyes cast upwards, Like a mad prophet in an ecstacy? _Cleom._ Musing on what we saw. Just such is death, With a black veil, covering a beauteous face. Feared afar off By erring nature; a mistaken phantom; A harmless, lambent fire. She kisses cold; But kind, and soft, and sweet, as my Cleora. Oh, could we know What joys she brings, at least, what rest from grief; How should we press into her friendly arms, And be pleased not to be, or to be happy! _Crat._ Look, what we have forgot! The joy to see Cleora here, has kept us from enquiring, By what strange means she entered. _Cleom._ Small joy, heaven knows, to be adopted here, Into the meagre family of famine! The house of hunger! therefore asked I not; So am I pleased to have her company, And so displeased to have it but in death.