My eyes grow dim, and, stiffened up with drought,
Can hardly roll, and walk their feeble round.
Indeed I am faint.
Crat. And so am I, heaven knows! However, [Aside.
In pity of them both, I keep it secret;
Nor shall he see me fall. [Exit Crat.
Cleom. How does your helpless infant?
Cleor. It wants the breast, its kindly nourishment;
And I have none to give from these dry cisterns,
Which, unsupplied themselves, can yield no more.