To wake on any call, but his own danger.
My father, his wise pilot, has observed
The face of heaven, and sees a gathering storm;
I know not from what quarter; but it threatens,
And, while it threats, he wants such hands as yours;
But when 'tis o'er, the thoughtless king returns
To native sloth, shifts sides, and slumbers on.
Panth. Sure, he'll remember to reward those hands,
That helped him from the plunge.
Clean. You dream, Pantheus,