_Cas._ Thy son, unknown to thee; for so I charged him; And this the promised hour of his return.--Nay, wonder not; I chose him with design, that, whatsoe'er The king ordains, you both should share the event, And stand or fall with me. Ponder on that, and leave me! _Sosib._ [_Aside._] What can she mean? She neither kills, nor saves. [_Exit_ SOSIBIUS. _Cas._ Now tell me, heart, now answer for thyself! What wilt thou do, and what dost thou desire?-- His life? No, he's ungrateful; or, his death? I tremble at that word.--What then? His love!-- His love! my heart. What! by restraint and famine? Are these the means to compass thy design?-- Revenge! My hand's so soft, his heart so hard, The blow recoils, and hurts me while I strike. Like the mad viper, scourged into a rage, I shoot into myself my fatal sting. _Enter Mariner._ _Mar._ The ship is ready, when you please to sail, And waits but your command: The wind stands fair. _Cas._ Be secret, and attend my farther pleasure.-- [_Gives him a Purse, and exit Mariner._ So; this was time well managed: In three days To hire a vessel, put my wealth on board, Send off the observing son, and fool the father.-- See him I will, to sound his last resolves, If love can soften him, or fear can bow. If both should fail, the ungrateful wretch shall find Rage has no bounds in slighted womankind. [_Exit._ SCENE II.--_A Prison._ _Enter_ CLEOMENES. _Cleom._ No food, and this the third arising sun! But what have I to do with telling suns, And measuring time, that runs no more for me? Yet sure the gods are good: I would think so, If they would give me leave; But virtue in distress, and vice in triumph, Make atheists of mankind.-- _Enter_ CRATESICLEA. What comfort, mother? _Crat._ A soul, not conscious to itself of ill, Undaunted courage, and a master mind; No comfort else but death, Who, like a lazy master, stands aloof, And leaves his work to the slow hands of famine. _Cleom._ All I would ask of heaven, Is, but to die alone, a single ruin; But to die o'er and o'er, in each of you, With my own hunger pinched, but pierced with yours! _Crat._ Grieve not for me. _Cleom._ What! not for you, my mother? I'm strangely tempted to blaspheme the gods, For giving me so good, so kind a parent; And this is my return, to cause her death. _Crat._ Peace! your misfortunes cause it, not your fault. _Enter_ CLEORA. _Cleom._ What! my Cleora? I stretched my bounds as far as I could go, To shun the sight of what I cannot help; A flower withering on the stalk, for want Of nourishment from earth, and showers from heaven, All I can give thee is but rain of eyes. [_Wiping his Eyes._