Cleora's gone to death. Is there a door,
A casement, or a rift within these walls,
That can let loose my body to her rescue?
Panth. All closed; nothing but heaven above is open.
Cleom. Nay, that's closed too; the gods are deaf to prayers!
Hush then; the irrevocable doom's gone forth,
And prayers lag after, but can ne'er o'ertake.—
Let us talk forward of our woes to come.
Crat. Cleanthes! (Oh, could you suspect his faith?)