_Cleom._ I could eat-- [_Going in._ Now my first appetite of love is served; And that was much the keenest: Let us in, For life looks lovely now, and worth preserving. _Clean._ Not that way, friend; It leads you to the women, and the boy. _Cleom._ And why must I avoid those tender blessings? _Clean._ Even such because they are, you must avoid them. For I must tell you, friend, you have but time To snatch a hasty morsel, and away: Nothing of manhood must be clogged, or softened, With womanish sighs and tears, and kind adieus, And those ill-timed remorses of good nature, When your whole soul is needful. _Panth._ You tell us wonders! _Clean._ At the king's return, Which daily we expect, your death's resolved. This hour's your own; take it, and tempt your fortune Some few brave friends I hope to add; If not, all Egypt's numbered in myself. _Cleom._ I'm all on fire.--Now for a lucky pull At fate's last lottery! I long to see the colour, white or black: That's the gods' work; and if I fall their shame, Let them ne'er think of making heroes more, If cowards must prevail. _Panth._ The fewer hands, The fewer partners in the share of honour. _Cleom._ Come, my Pantheus;--lead, my best Cleanthes! We three to all the world. _Clean._ Magas, and liberty, let be the word: Magas is loved, and liberty desired. A short refection waits at the lieutenant's, That honest friend, who sent you back your wife. We'll drink a bowl of wine, and pour the rest, Not to the dog Anubis, but to Jove, The freer and avenger. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ CRATESICLEA, CLEORA, CLEONIDAS. _Cleor._ Gone, and without taking leave! _Crat._ The better. He bated me the forms, and you the fondness. _Cleon._ Pantheus, too, and he, who brought the food, The brave Egyptian, vanished altogether. _Cleor._ Oh, my foreboding soul! he's gone to death! And that Cleanthes, whom thou call'st the brave, Has basely trained him to his destruction! _Crat._ Suspect him not; when fate was in his power, And by a method so secure as famine, To save us then, shows he had little need To trick my son to death. I have a better prospect of the event. _Cleor._ Dear mother! comfort me, and tell your thoughts; For I see nothing but a gathering tempest, Horror on horror, to the end of heaven! _Crat._ No, no; you are not of a soul to bear The mighty good and ill, that meet midway, As from two goals; and which comes first upon us, Fate only knows. _Cleon._ Then speak to me, for I can stand the shock; Like a young plant, that fastens in a storm, And deeper drives the root.