I have a better prospect of the event.
Cleor. Dear mother! comfort me, and tell your thoughts;
For I see nothing but a gathering tempest,
Horror on horror, to the end of heaven!
Crat. No, no; you are not of a soul to bear
The mighty good and ill, that meet midway,
As from two goals; and which comes first upon us,
Fate only knows.
Cleon. Then speak to me, for I can stand the shock;
Like a young plant, that fastens in a storm,