Smiled on his subjects, as he rode in triumph,
And strewed his plenty, wheresoe'er he passed.
Nay, raise your thoughts yet higher;—think some deity,
Some better Ceres, drawn along the sky
By gentle dragons, scattered, as she flew,
Her fruitful grains upon the teeming ground,
And bade new harvests rise.
Cleom. Do we dream, Pantheus?
Panth. No, sure; we are awake: but 'tis he, dreams.
Cœn. The soldiers marched, as in procession, slow,