And thrust between my father and the god.
Cleor. Do you not view, my lord,
As in a glass, your darling fault, ambition,
Reflected in your son?
Cleom. My virtue rather:
I love to see him sparkle out betimes,
For 'twas my flame, that lighted up his soul:
I'm pleased with my own work; Jove was not more
With infant nature, when his spacious hand
Had rounded this huge ball of earth and seas,