And now, I cannot go.
Crat. Are you turned woman?
No more of this fond stuff.
Cleon. Shall I be left to gather rust in Egypt?
A glue of sloth to stick to my young pinions,
And mar their flight; habitual cowardice?
No; I must learn my stubborn trade of war
From you alone, and envy you betimes.
Cleom. But the conditions! Oh these hard conditions!
That such a spirit must be left behind,