And miss the flying prey.
[While she walks, Cleom. and Cleon. are looking on a picture hanging on the side of the Scenes. She takes out a pocket-glass, and looks in it.
These eyes, I thank the gods,
Are still the same. The diamonds are not dimmed,
Nor is their lustre lost in Ptolemy.
Small boast: Alas! Ptolemy has no soul;
'Tis what he wants I love in Cleomenes.
Perhaps he dares not think I would be loved;
Then must I make the advance, and, making, lose
The vast prerogative our sex enjoys,