SCENE III.--_The Port of Alexandria.

_Enter_ CLEOMENES, _and_ CLEANTHES.

_Cleom._ The propositions are unjust and hard; And if I swallow them, 'tis as we take The wrath of heaven. We must have patience, for they will be gods, And give us no account of what we suffer.

_Clean._ My father much abhors this middle way, Betwixt a gift and sale of courtesy. But 'tis the mistress; she that seemed so kind, 'Tis she, that bears so hard a hand upon you; She that would half oblige, and half affront.

_Cleom._ Let her be what she is: that's curse enough. But such a wife, a mother, and a son! Oh sure, ye gods! when ye made this vile Egypt, Ye little thought, they should be mortgaged here! My only comfort Is, that I trust these precious pawns with thee; For thou art so religiously a friend, That I would sooner leave them in thy hands, Than if I had security from heaven, And all the gods to answer for their safety.

_Clean._ Yes, yes; they shall be safe; And thou shall have a pledge, As strong as friendship can make over to thee. Deny me not, for I must go with thee, And share what fate allots for thee in Greece. [CLEOMENES _looks discontentedly_.

Nay, cast not on me that forbidding frown; But let me be their pawn, as they are thine: So I shall have thee wholly to myself, And be thy wife, thy mother, and thy son, As thou art all to me.

_Cleom._ Oh friend! [_Sighs, and wipes his eyes._

_Clean._ What wouldst thou say, my better part?

_Cleom._ No more, but this, that thou art too unkind, When even in kindness thou wouldst overcome.

_Clean._ Let me be proud; and pardon thou my pride. Base, worthless Egypt has no other pawn, To counter-balance these, but only me. 'Twas on such terms alone I durst propose it. Shalt thou leave these, And I not leave a father, whom I love? Come, come, it must be so. We'll give each other all we have besides; And then we shall be even.--Here they are! I leave thee. Break those tender ties of nature, As gently as thou canst; they must be broken. [_Going, returns._ But, when thou seest Cassandra, curb thy spleen; Seem to receive the kindness as from her; And, if thou think'st I love thee, for my sake, Remembering me, strive to forget my father. [_Exit_ CLEAN.

_Enter_ CLEORA, CRATESICLEA, _and_ CLEONIDAS.

_Cleom._ But how can I sustain to tell them this, [_Walking from them._ Even in the gentlest terms! There are not words in any tongue so soft As I would use: the gods must have a new one, If they would have me speak.

_Crat._ How, king of Sparta! When your fortune smiles, A glorious sunshine, and a gloomy soul? The gods love chearfulness, when they are kind; They think their gifts despised, and thrown away On sullen thankless hearts.

_Cleor._ I hear, my dearest lord, that we shall go.

_Cleom._ Go!

_Cleon._ What a mournful echo makes my father! By Mars, he stifles _go_ upon his tongue, And kills the joyful sound; he speaks so low, That heaven must listen, if it hear his thanks.

_Cleom._ Yes, I shall go; but how?

_Cleor._ With Egypt's aid.

_Cleon._ With his own soul and sword, a thousand strong; And worth ten Egypts, and their ten thousand gods.

_Crat._ There's something more in this, than what we guess; Some secret anguish rolls within his breast, That shakes him like an earthquake, which he presses, And will not give it vent: I know him well. He blushes, and would speak, and wants a voice; And stares and gapes like a forbidden ghost, Till he be spoke to first.--Tell me, my son!

_Cleom._ Mother, I will.--And yet I cannot neither. [_Aside._ Mother! that word has struck me dumb again: For, how can I say mother, and propound To leave her here behind, who gave me life? Mother! and wife! and son! the names that nature Most loves to speak, are banished from my mouth.

_Cleor._ Tell us, my love, the king has changed his mind, And has refused us leave; for we can bear it: Egypt is Greece to me, while you are here.

_Cleom._ Oh I would speak! But, oh! you speak so kindly, That you forbid my speech: You call me love.

_Cleor._ Was that too kind a word?

_Cleom._ It was to me: I am a mere barbarian, A brute, a stock, for I have no relations, Or shortly shall have none.

_Cleor._ Then we must die!

_Cleon._ We must; and welcome death.

_Crat._ To save his life.

_Cleom._ The gods forbid that you should die for me! No, you may live; but I must die thrice over, For I must leave you here, or must not go: These are the hard conditions offered me.

_Crat._ Then Egypt would have pledges: Is this all?

_Cleom._ Yes, and a mighty all: 'Tis all I have. But I propose it not; remember that.

_Crat._ I do; and therefore I propose it first, To save this virtuous shame, this good confusion, That would not let you speak.

_Cleom._ Oh! I could almost think you love me not, You granted me so quick, so willingly, What I,--bear witness, heaven,--was slow to ask, And would be loth to have.

_Cleor._ I cannot leave you.

_Cleom._ I was but wishing thou wouldst draw me back, And now, I cannot go.

_Crat._ Are you turned woman? No more of this fond stuff.

_Cleon._ Shall I be left to gather rust in Egypt? A glue of sloth to stick to my young pinions, And mar their flight; habitual cowardice? No; I must learn my stubborn trade of war From you alone, and envy you betimes.

_Cleom._ But the conditions! Oh these hard conditions! That such a spirit must be left behind, Untaught, unfashioned by a father's hands! A spirit fit to start into an empire, And look the world to law.

_Crat._ No more debating, for I see the pinch. He must be left, and so must she and I, For we are but your softnesses, my son; The incumbrances and luggage of the war. Fight for us, and redeem us, if you please; For there we are your clogs of virtue; here, The spurs of your return.

_Cleom._ I thank you, mother; Once more you have erected me to man, And set me upright, with my face to heaven. The woman and the boy be yours awhile: The war be mine alone!

_Crat._ There spoke the Spartan king: Think not on us.

_Cleom._ I wonnot.

_Cleor._ Not in prayers!

_Cleon._ In prayers! That's poor, As if the gods were thoughtless of their work. Think on us, when you fight; and when you make A lusty stroke, cry out,--That's for my boy.

_Crat._ Dispose this mouldering carcase as you please, Ere lingering age or sickness wear it out, Unprofitable then for Sparta's good. Be chearful, fight it well, and all the rest Leave to the gods and fortune.

_Cleom._ If they fail me, Theirs be the fault, for fate is theirs alone: My virtue, fame, and honour are my own. [_Exeunt._