Nothing of manhood must be clogged, or softened,
With womanish sighs and tears, and kind adieus,
And those ill-timed remorses of good nature,
When your whole soul is needful.
Panth. You tell us wonders!
Clean. At the king's return,
Which daily we expect, your death's resolved.
This hour's your own; take it, and tempt your fortune
Some few brave friends I hope to add;
If not, all Egypt's numbered in myself.