For since his father's death, this Ptolemy
Has minded me no more
Than boys their last year's gewgaws.
Petition on petition, prayer on prayer,
For aid, or free dismission, all unanswered,
As Cleomenes were not worth his thought;
Or he, that god, which Epicurus dreamt,
Disclaiming care, and lolling on a cloud.
Panth. At length, it seems, it pleases him to wake.
Clean. Yes, for himself, not you; he's drenched too deep,