Cleon. What a mournful echo makes my father!
By Mars, he stifles go upon his tongue,
And kills the joyful sound; he speaks so low,
That heaven must listen, if it hear his thanks.
Cleom. Yes, I shall go; but how?
Cleor. With Egypt's aid.
Cleon. With his own soul and sword, a thousand strong;
And worth ten Egypts, and their ten thousand gods.
Crat. There's something more in this, than what we guess;
Some secret anguish rolls within his breast,