Pho. The King dead? this is a fair entrance to
Our future happiness.
Ars. Oh my dear Brother!
Cleo. Weep not, Arsino, common women do so,
Nor lose a tear for him, it cannot help him;
But study to dye nobly.
Pho. Cæsar fled!
'Tis deadly aconite to my cold heart,
It choaks my vital Spirits: where was your care?
Did the Guards sleep?