{ The gods have made your noble mind for me,
{ And her insipid soul for Ptolemy:
A heavy lump of earth, without desire;
A heap of ashes, that o'erlays your fire.
Cleom. Virtue you must allow her, though a foe.
Cas. No more than what I would to ice and snow.
Yet those have seeds of heat; her shivering blood
Makes her, at best, but impotently good.
But neither I can save you, if you stay,
Nor save myself unless I go away;