And cannot hear thee;
Or with open Eyes,
Did Jove look on us, I would laugh and swear
That his artillery is cloy'd by me:
Or if that they have power to hurt, his Bolts
Are in my hand.
Cleo. Most impious!
Pho. They are dreams,
Religious Fools shake at: yet to assure thee,
If Nemesis, that scourges pride and scorn,