_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.
_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._
_Enter_ CLEOMENES, CLEANTHES, _and_ PANTHEUS.
_Cleom._ The king sent for me, say'st thou, and to council!
_Clean._ And I was coming to you, on that message, Just when I met Pantheus.
_Panth._ Good omen, sir, of some intended good. Your fortune mends; she reconciles apace, When Egypt makes the advances.
_Cleom._ Rise a prophet!-- For since his father's death, this Ptolemy Has minded me no more Than boys their last year's gewgaws. Petition on petition, prayer on prayer, For aid, or free dismission, all unanswered, As Cleomenes were not worth his thought; Or he, that god, which Epicurus dreamt, Disclaiming care, and lolling on a cloud.
_Panth._ At length, it seems, it pleases him to wake.
_Clean._ Yes, for himself, not you; he's drenched too deep, To wake on any call, but his own danger. My father, his wise pilot, has observed The face of heaven, and sees a gathering storm; I know not from what quarter; but it threatens, And, while it threats, he wants such hands as yours; But when 'tis o'er, the thoughtless king returns To native sloth, shifts sides, and slumbers on.