_Cleon._ I would obey you, As I have always done, but I am faint; And when you please to let me die, I'll thank you. _Cleom._ Thou shall have food; I promise thee, thou shalt. _Cleon._ Then you shall promise to have food for yourself too; For, if you have it not, I would refuse to eat; Nay, I would chuse to die, that you might feed on me. _Cleom._ Mark, heaven, his filial love! And if a family of such as these Must perish thus, your model is destroyed, By which you made good men. _Enter_ PANTHEUS, _hastily_. _Panth._ Be cheerful, sir, the gods have sent us food. _Cleom._ They tried me of the longest; but by whom? _Panth._ Go in and see. _Cleon._ Good father, do not stay to ask, but go. _Cleom._ Go thou; thy youth calls fiercer than my age. _Cleon._ But then make haste, and come to take your part: Hunger may make me impious, to eat all, And leave you last to starve. [_Exit_ CLEONIDAS. _Panth._ Sir, will you go? _Cleom._ I know not; I am half seas o'er to death; And, since I must die once, I would be loth To make a double work of what's half finished; Unless I could be sure the gods would still Renew these miracles.[44]--Who brought this food? _Panth._ He's here that can resolve you. [_Exit_ PANTHEUS. _Enter_ CLEANTHES, _with a Sword in his Hand_. _Cleom._ How darest thou come again within my sight? Thou art,--but 'tis no matter what thou art. I'll not consider thee so far to think Thee worth reproach.--Away, away, Egyptian! That's all the name that's left thee. _Clean._ Such I appear indeed. _Cleom._ Why then for once, that which thou seem'st, thou art.-- Begone! _Clean._ Oh I have been too long away! _Cleom._ Too soon thou art returned, To triumph o'er my fate. _Clean._ Forgive me, that I seemed your foe. _Cleom._ Forgive me, heaven, for thinking thee my friend.-- No more; 'tis loss of time to talk. _Clean._ Indeed it is, When hunger calls so loud for sustenance. But whether friend or foe, 'tis food I bring. _Cleom._ 'Tis poison; and my mother, and my wife, And my poor famished boy, are eating death. Thou would'st not have me think, that thou repent'st? _Clean._ Heaven knows, I do not! _Cleom._ Well said, man! Go on; and be not bashful, To own the merits of thy wickedness. _Clean._ What need has innocence of a repentance? _Cleom._ Shuffling again! Pr'ythee, be of a piece. A little steadiness becomes a villain. _Clean._ Oh, friend!--for yet I dare to call you so; Which, if I were a villain, sure I durst not,-- Hear me, or kill me! _Cleom._ So, by heaven, I would, For thy profaning friendship's holy name; But, for thou see'st no justice hanging here, On this bare side, thou talk'st secure of vengeance. _Clean._ Then, if you had a sword, my death's resolved?