SCENE I.--_The Sea-Port of Alexandria.

_Enter_ CLEOMENES.

_Cleom._ Dejected! no, it never shall be said, That fate had power upon a Spartan soul: My mind on its own centre stands unmoved, And stable, as the fabric of the world, Propt on itself; still I am Cleomenes. I fought the battle bravely, which I lost; And lost it, but to Macedonians, The successors of those who conquered Asia. 'Twas for a cause too, such a cause I fought; Unbounded empire hung upon my sword: Greece, like a lovely heifer, stood in view, To see the rival bulls each other gore, But wished the conquest mine. I fled; and yet I languish not in exile; But here in Egypt whet my blunted horns, And meditate new fights, and chew my loss. Ah! why, ye gods, must Cleomenes wait On this effeminate, luxurious court, For tardy helps of base Egyptian bands? Why have not I, whose individual mind Would ask a nation of such souls to inform it, Why have not I ten thousand hands to fight It all myself, and make the work my own?

_Enter_ CRATESICLEA, CLEORA, _and_ CLEONIDAS.

_Crat._ Is this well done? or like the king of Sparta? Or like my son? to waste your time in tears? What have you done, that you avoid mankind, And sculk in corners like a guilty slave?

_Cleor._ We have been seeking you, my dearest lord, Through all the shady walks and dark retreats Of secret care; that false deluding friend, That only sooths and keeps you company, To prey upon your last remains of life.

_Cleom._ I've heard you. [_Sighs._

_Crat._ Hear her still; she tells you true. This melancholy flatters, but unmans you. What is it else, but penury of soul, A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind, That locks up all the vigour to attempt, By barely crying,--'tis impossible!

_Cleom._ You both mistake me:--That I grieve, 'tis true; But 'tis a grief of fury, not despair! And if a manly drop or two fall down, It scalds along my cheeks, like the green wood, That, sputtering in the flame, works outward into tears.

_Cleor._ Why would you leave me then, and be alone? Indeed it was a churlish kind of sorrow, Indeed it was, to engross it all yourself, And not permit me to endure my share. Think you, because I am of tender mould, I cannot suffer and partake your burdens? Alas! I suffer more by not partaking.

_Cleom._ My wife! my mother! O, I'm so divided, That I grieve most for both, and love both most! Two twining vines about this elm, whose fall Must shortly--very shortly, crush you both. And yet I will not go to ground, Without a noble ruin round my trunk: The forest shall be shaken when I sink, And all the neighbouring trees Shall groan, and fall beneath my vast destruction.

_Crat._ That's something yet, an earnest of an action; Another groan or two, and all goes well.

_Cleom._ Well, I will live.

_Crat._ Thou shalt.

_Cleom._ I'll try at least.

_Crat._ Do not go back, and beat off what thou saidst.

_Cleon._ Peace, peace, good grandmother; he lives already, And conquers too, in saying he will try: Nay, if the king of Sparta says he'll do't, I ask no more than that; For 'tis below a king to tell a lie.

_Cleor._ But where's the means?

_Cleon._ The means is in the daring: Had my own mother lived, and asked that question, I should have thought my father had begot me Without her help, as Pallas sprung from Jove.

_Cleor._ Think'st thou, he can defend us all, alone?

_Cleon._ No; for I mean to help him.

_Cleom._ That's my boy, my hopeful lion's whelp. [_Takes and kisses him._

_Cleor._ So Hector hugged his young Astyanax; Went out to fight, and never saw him more.

_Cleon._ But why did not Astyanax go with Hector?

_Crat._ Because he was a child, and could not go.

_Cleon._ Was he a Spartan child?

_Cleor._ Oh no! a Trojan.

_Cleon._ There's it, a Trojan child. But grant me this, There are no Spartan children; we are born men; And though you say, I have but fifteen years, We Spartans take ten strides before our age, And start beyond dull nature.

_Cleom._ Let me but live to shadow this young plant From blights and storms, he'll soon shoot up a hero: He must; I got him in the pride of conquest; For, coming back from my first maiden battle, Wherein I made the great Aratus fly, And added all his laurels to my brow, I well remember, that I spurred it hard, And, like a meteor, shot before my troops, To reach my love that night. I was bridegroom, Or scarce had lost that name; and, stealing home, According to my country's modest use, I found my Ægiatis just undrest, Wearying the gods with vows for my return. My transport was so great, I could not stay, But kissed, and took her, trembling, in my arms; And in that fury of my love, I stampt This image of my soul.--[41]

_Enter_ PANTHEUS.

What, my Pantheus! Where hast thou been this long long year of hours?

_Panth._ Where I have past a merry morning's walk, With the best company.

_Cleom._ With whom?

_Panth._ Why with myself, in laughing at the world, Making a farce of life, where knaves, and fools, And madmen, that's all human kind, were actors.

_Cleom._ And what part acted you?

_Panth._ As little as I could; and daily would have less, So please the gods, for that's a wise man's part.

_Cleom._ Would I could share thy balmy, even temper, And milkiness of blood.

_Panth._ You may.

_Cleom._ As how?

_Panth._ By but forgetting you have been a king.

_Cleom._ Then must I rust in Egypt, never more Appear in arms, and be the chief of Greece? Now, by yon blue palace, The mansion of my great forefather, Hercules, I would lose o'er again Sellasia's field, Rather than fight behind, When proud Aratus led the Grecian van.

_Cleon._ What, when the lively trumpets sound a charge, The word of battle may be Hercules, And after our great grandsire's name, Aratus Cries,--Cleomenes, bring you up the rear.

_Panth._ If fortune takes not off this boy betimes, He'll make mad work, and elbow all his neighbours.

_Cleon._ My neighbours! Little: Elbow all the world, And push off kings, like counters, from the board, To place myself the foremost.

_Panth._ What wilt thou be, young cockeril, when thy spurs Are grown to sharpness?

_Cleon._ Why, I'll be a Spartan; For if I said a king, I should say less. I mean a Spartan while I live on earth; But when in heaven, I'll stand next Hercules, And thrust between my father and the god.

_Cleor._ Do you not view, my lord, As in a glass, your darling fault, ambition, Reflected in your son?

_Cleom._ My virtue rather: I love to see him sparkle out betimes, For 'twas my flame, that lighted up his soul: I'm pleased with my own work; Jove was not more With infant nature, when his spacious hand Had rounded this huge ball of earth and seas, To give it the first push, and see it roll Along the vast abyss.

_Cleon._ My mother would have had my youth brought up To spin with girls in Sparta.

_Crat._ Well said, my boy; yet Hercules, they say, Took up the distaff once.

_Cleon._ Yes, when he had been conquered by a woman.

_Panth._ [_To_ CLEOM.] One thing I have forgot, which may import you,-- You'll suddenly hear news from Greece.

_Cleom._ Thou wert Indeed forgetful, not to tell me that; For, from my first arrival on this coast, This fatal Egypt, where I fled for refuge, In three long months I have not heard from Greece. What makes thee think I shall have news so soon?

_Panth._ As walking on the beach, I saw a ship Just entering in the port, and on the deck Stood Cœnus.

_Cleom._ Cœnus, saidst thou?

_Panth._ Yes, our Cœnus, the rich Messenian lord; I saw and knew him; but, amidst the shouts Of mariners, and busy care to sling His horses soon ashore, he saw not me.

_Cleom._ Then shall I hear of thee once more, dear country! I fear too soon: shall hear how proud Antigonus Led o'er Eurota's banks his conquering troops, And first to wondering Sparta shewed a king, A king, that was not hers: Then I shall hear of sacrilege and murders, And fires, and rapes on matrons, and on maids.

_Panth._ Such news we must expect.

_Cleom._ O happy ghosts Of those that fell in the last fatal fight, And lived not to survive their country's loss! Base as I was, I should have fallen there too; But first have raised a mountain of the dead, To choke their way to Sparta.

_Panth._ Thus I knew Your blood would boil, and therefore I delayed So long to tell you Cœnus was arrived.

_Cleom._ Go, My mother, my Cleora, and my boy. [_Stroking_ CLEON. Your ears would be polluted with such ills, Which I must try to mollify, before They reach your tender hearing.

_Cleor._ I obey you. But let not grief disorder you too much For what you lost. For me, while I have you, and you are kind, I ask no more of heaven.

_Cleon._ I go too, Because my king and father bids me go; Else, I have sternness in my soul enough To hear of murders, rapes, and sacrilege: For those are soldiers' work; and I would hear them, To spur me to revenge. [_Exeunt_ CRAT. CLEORA, _and_ CLEON.

_Panth._ He's here already; Now bear it like yourself.

_Cleom._ I'm armed against it.

_Enter_ CŒNUS; _salutes_ CLEOMENES.

_Cœn._ I heard, sir, you were refuged in this court, And come to beg a favour.

_Cleom._ Good; a favour! Sure, thou mistakest me for a king of Egypt, And think'st I govern here?

_Cœn._ You're Cleomenes.

_Cleom._ No thanks to heaven for that. I should have died, And then I had not been this Cleomenes.

_Panth._ You promised patience, sir.

_Cleom._ Thou art a scurvy monitor; I am patient: Do I foam at lips, Or stare at eyes? Methinks, I am wondrous patient: Now, thou shalt see how I can swallow gall.-- I pr'ythee, gentle Cœnus, tell the story [_Speaking softly._ Of ruined Sparta; leave no circumstance Untold, of all their woes; and I will hear thee, As unconcerned, as if thou toldst a tale Of ruined Troy. I pr'ythee, tell us how The victors robbed the shrines, polluted temples, Ransacked each wealthy house:--No, spare me that; Poor honest Sparta had no wealth to lose. But [_Raises his voice._] when thou com'st to tell of matrons ravished, And virgins forced, then raise thy voice, And let me hear their howlings, And dreadful shrieks, as in the act of rape.

_Panth._ Again you are distempered.

_Cleom._ [_Softly._] Peace! I am not. I was but teaching him to grace his tale With decent horror.

_Cœn._ Your sick imagination feigns all this: Now hear a truth, and wonder.

_Cleom._ Has not the conqueror been at Sparta?

_Cœn._ Yes.

_Cleom._ Nay, then I know what follows victory.

_Panth._ You interrupt, as if you would not know.

_Cœn._ Then,--if you will imagine,--think some king, Who loved his people, took a peaceful progress To some far distant place of his dominions; Smiled on his subjects, as he rode in triumph, And strewed his plenty, wheresoe'er he passed. Nay, raise your thoughts yet higher;--think some deity, Some better Ceres, drawn along the sky By gentle dragons, scattered, as she flew, Her fruitful grains upon the teeming ground, And bade new harvests rise.

_Cleom._ Do we dream, Pantheus?

_Panth._ No, sure; we are awake: but 'tis he, dreams.

_Cœn._ The soldiers marched, as in procession, slow, And entered Sparta like a choir of priests, As if they feared to tread on holy ground. No noise was heard; no voice, but of the crier, Proclaiming peace and liberty to Sparta. At that, a peal of loud applause rang out, And thinned the air, till even the birds fell down Upon the shouters' heads: the shops flew open, And all the busy trades renewed their tasks: No law was changed, no custom was controuled; That had Lycurgus lived, or you returned, So Sparta would have shown.

_Panth._ If this be true,----

_Cleom._ If this indeed be true, Then farewell, Sparta.

_Cœn._ Hear me out.-- He reaped no fruit of conquest but their blessings; Nor staid three days in Sparta; summoned thence, With sudden news, that a barbarian host Was entered Macedonia, And, like a mighty deluge rolling on, Swept all before them. Thus alarmed, he left us; Marched homeward; met, and fought them; nay, and lived To say, the field is mine!

_Panth._ Died of his wounds?

_Cœn._ Not so; but, straining loud his feeble voice To animate his soldiers, broke a vein, And, in a purple vomit, poured his soul.

_Panth._ O blessed, blessed Cœnus, for this happy news! [_Embraces_ CŒNUS.

_Cleom._ O, wretch! O, born to all misfortunes! cursed, Cursed Cleomenes!

_Panth._ How's this!--Are these the thanks you pay the gods, Who freed your Sparta, and removed, by death, Your only fatal foe?

_Cleom._ O, blind Pantheus! Canst thou not find, that, had I but deferred Sellasia's fight three days, but three short days, Fate then had fought my battle with Antigonus; And I, not fighting, had been still a king?

_Panth._ That's true; but that you knew not when you fought.

_Cleom._ Why, therefore, once again cursed Cleomenes! 'Tis not to be endured, That fate of empires, and the fall of kings, Should turn on flying hours, and catch of moments.

_Panth._ Now, by my soul, 'tis lazy wickedness, To rail at heaven, and not to help yourself; Heaven's but too kind, in offering you the means. Your fate, once more, is laid upon the anvil; Now pluck up all the Spartan in your soul, Now stretch at every stroke, and hammer out A new, and nobler fortune; Else may the peaceful ground restore the dead, And give up old Antigonus again.

_Cleom._ I thank thee; thou hast added flame to fury. The Spartan genius shall once more be roused; Our household gods, that droop upon our hearths, Each from his venerable face shall brush The Macedonian soot, and shine again.

_Panth._ Now you confess the Spartan.

_Cleom._ Haste, Pantheus! I struggle like the priestess with a god; With that oppressing god, that works her soul. Haste to Cleanthes, my Egyptian friend, That only man that Egypt ever made; He's my Lucina. Say, my friendship wants him, To help me bring to light a manly birth; Which to the wondering world I shall disclose, Or, if he fail me, perish in my throes. [_Exeunt._