Cleom. I'm all on fire.—Now for a lucky pull
At fate's last lottery!
I long to see the colour, white or black:
That's the gods' work; and if I fall their shame,
Let them ne'er think of making heroes more,
If cowards must prevail.
Panth. The fewer hands,
The fewer partners in the share of honour.
Cleom. Come, my Pantheus;—lead, my best Cleanthes!
We three to all the world.