Who, like a lazy master, stands aloof,
And leaves his work to the slow hands of famine.
Cleom. All I would ask of heaven,
Is, but to die alone, a single ruin;
But to die o'er and o'er, in each of you,
With my own hunger pinched, but pierced with yours!
Crat. Grieve not for me.
Cleom. What! not for you, my mother?
I'm strangely tempted to blaspheme the gods,
For giving me so good, so kind a parent;