_Crat._ Thy soul's too strong; thy body yet too weak, To bear the crush. Be still, and wait thy doom. [_A cry within_: Liberty, liberty! Magas, Magas! To arms for Magas, and for liberty! _Cleon._ What noble sound was that, so smart and vigorous, A soul in every word? _Crat._ Why, that was it, I thought was doing; but I durst not tell, Till now it shows itself. The work's begun, my boy; the work's begun; There was thy father in that warlike shout, Stemming the tide of Egypt. _Cleor._ O comfort me, my husband's mother! say, My lord may live and conquer! _Crat._ Possibly; But still make sure of death; trust we to that, As to our last reserve. _Cleor._ Alas! I dare not die. _Crat._ Come, come, you dare: Do not belye your courage. _Cleor._ Heaven help me, I have none. _Crat._ Then dare you be a slave to base Egyptians? For that must be, if you outlive your husband. _Cleor._ I think, I durst, to save myself from death. _Crat._ Then, as a slave, you durst be ravished too? _Cleor._ The Gods forbid! _Crat._ The Gods cannot forbid it By any way but death. _Cleor._ Then I dare die. _Crat._ I told you so; you did not know your virtue. Poor trembling thing, I'll warm thee in my bosom, And make thee take death kindly. [_Another Shout within_--Liberty and Magas! _Cleon._ What must become of me? _Crat._ More trouble yet about this paltry being? For shame, no more such qualms! _Cleon._ No more such vile mistakes! I would die warm, And not in women's company, but men's. Whether some god inspires me to this act, Or fate inevitably calls me on, I will not, cannot stay: But, as a generous, unfleshed hound, that hears From far the hunters' horn and chearful cry, So will I haste; and, by the music led, Come up with death or honour. [_Exit._ _Cleor._ Stop him, dear mother; he may comfort us, But cannot help his father. _Crat._ The hero's blood is not to be controuled; Even in a child 'tis madly masterful. But wait we patient with our petty stakes, Which on those greater gamesters must depend; For, as they throw, our little lots must follow, Like sweepings of their heap. [CRAT. _and_ CLEORA _go in. Trumpets; a Shout within_--Liberty, Liberty, and Magas! _Enter_ CLEOMENES, CLEANTHES, PANTHEUS, _followed by some few Egyptians_. _Cleom._ What, is this populous city turned a desert? The cry of "Liberty" runs on before us, And yet none appears! By Hercules, we drive them through their town: They dare not stay to welcome their deliverers. _Clean._ The cowards are afraid of what they wish; And, could they be their own, they would be ours. _Cleom._ They're gone; we talk to houses and to walls.