And keep my soul a prisoner in my body;
There let it creep and wander in the dark,
Till, tired to find no outlet, it retreats
Into my Spartan heart, and there lies pleased;
So, we two are provided.—Sir, your choice? [To Cleom.
Cleom. Not this dispatch, for we may die at leisure.
This famine has a sharp and meagre face:
'Tis death in an undress of skin and bone;
Where age and youth, their land-mark ta'en away,
Look all one common furrow.