_Cleom._ Thy conscience answers thee. _Clean._ Without more evidence than bare surmise; At most, appearance of a crime unproved; And, while unproved, uncertain. _Cleom._ Traitor, no more! 'tis fulsome. _Clean._ Take the sword. [_Throws it to him._ _Cleom._ I thank thee; draw thy own. [_Takes it up._ _Clean._ No; take that too. [_Draws his, and offers it._ _Cleom._ Fool! would'st thou die without defence? _Clean._ I would not: But you forbade me to defend myself, Then, when you would not hear me. _Cleom._ Can falsehood have a better argument, Than force for its defence? Trust to that topic, And bear thee like a man. _Clean._ I think, I do. _Cleom._ What kind of man is that, who dares not fight? _Clean._ The man, who dares not when his honour calls, Is what you mean, but what I never was; For honour never summons without reason. Force is the law of brutes: the dumb creation, Where words and reason want, appeal to might. I thought a king, and, what you boast, a Spartan, Might have known this, without the Egyptian's telling. _Cleom._ Come, come; thou dar'st not fight. _Clean._ By heaven, I dare! But first my honour must be justified, If you dare be my judge; For, in this crude and indigested quarrel, If I should fall unheard, you kill your friend, The man, who loved you best, and holds you dearest; And should you perish in the unjust attempt, The sword, that slew you, should revenge your death; For I should soon o'ertake you in the way, To quit myself before you reached the shades, And told your tale to Minos. _Cleom._ Then I must hear; but swear, swear first, I charge thee, That, when I have pronounced, thou wilt no more Prolong thy prattle with some new excuse; And pr'ythee cut it short, because I faint, And long to kill thee first--Oh, I am going! A rising vapour rumbles in my brains, I hear my words far off:--stand, stand, thou traitor, And swim not thus before me;--'tis too late; [_Puts the Point upon the Ground, once or twice; leans on it, and staggers._ And I fall unrevenged.-- [_Offers to run at him, and is falling._ _Clean._ What ho, Pantheus! [_Runs to him, and takes him in his arms._ The best of men is dying in my arms, And I want power to save him. _Enter_ PANTHEUS. _Panth._ O heavens! what means this direful object? _Clean._ Ask not, with unassisting pity; bow him forward. Rub his numbed temples, while I wipe the sweat From his cold clammy face. _Panth._ His mounting heart Bounces against my hands, as if it would Thrust off his manly soul.