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;