_Cleor._ Alas! I have not wherewithal to weep; My eyes grow dim, and, stiffened up with drought, Can hardly roll, and walk their feeble round. Indeed I am faint. _Crat._ And so am I, heaven knows! However, [_Aside._ In pity of them both, I keep it secret; Nor shall he see me fall. [_Exit_ CRAT. _Cleom._ How does your helpless infant? _Cleor._ It wants the breast, its kindly nourishment; And I have none to give from these dry cisterns, Which, unsupplied themselves, can yield no more. It pulled, and pulled but now, but nothing came: At last it drew so hard, that the blood followed; And that red milk I found upon its lips, Which made me swoon with fear. _Cleom._ Go in and rest thee, And hush the child asleep.-- [_Exit_ CLEORA. Look down, ye gods! Look, Hercules, thou author of my race, And jog thy father, Jove, that he may look On his neglected work of humankind! Tell him, I do not curse him; but devotion Will cool in after-times, if none but good men suffer.-- What! another increase of grief? _Enter_ CLEONIDAS. _Cleon._ O father! _Cleom._ Why dost thou call me by so kind a name? A father! that implies presiding care; Cheerful to give; willing himself to want Whate'er thy needs require. _Cleon._ A little food! Have you none, father? One poor hungry morsel; Or give me leave to die, as I desired; For, without your consent, heaven knows, I dare not. _Cleom._ I pr'ythee stay a little:--I am loth To say hard things of heaven! _Cleon._ But what if heaven Will do hard things, must not hard things be said? You've often told me, that the souls of kings Are made above the rest of human race; Have they not fortunes fitted for those souls? Did ever king die starved? _Cleom._ I know not that; Yet still be firm in this,--The gods are good, Though thou and I may perish. _Cleon._ Indeed, I know not, That ever I offended heaven in thought; I always said my prayers. _Cleom._ Thou didst thy duty. _Cleon._ And yet you lost the battle, when I prayed. _Cleom._ 'Twas in the Fates I should: but hold thee there; The rest is all unfathomable depth. This we well know, that, if there be a bliss Beyond this present life, 'tis purchased here, And virtue is its price. _Cleon._ But are you sure Our souls shall be immortal? _Cleom._ Why that question? _Cleon._ Because I find, that, now my body starves, My soul decays. I think not as I did; My head goes round; and now you swim before me. Methinks my soul is like a flame unfed With oil, that dances up and down the lamp, But must expire ere long. _Cleom._ I pr'ythee try to hold it, while thou canst.