Nay, I would chuse to die, that you might feed on me.
Cleom. Mark, heaven, his filial love!
And if a family of such as these
Must perish thus, your model is destroyed,
By which you made good men.
Enter Pantheus, hastily.
Panth. Be cheerful, sir, the gods have sent us food.
Cleom. They tried me of the longest; but by whom?
Panth. Go in and see.
Cleon. Good father, do not stay to ask, but go.