There are not words in any tongue so soft
As I would use: the gods must have a new one,
If they would have me speak.
Crat. How, king of Sparta! When your fortune smiles,
A glorious sunshine, and a gloomy soul?
The gods love chearfulness, when they are kind;
They think their gifts despised, and thrown away
On sullen thankless hearts.
Cleor. I hear, my dearest lord, that we shall go.
Cleom. Go!