The work's begun, my boy; the work's begun;
There was thy father in that warlike shout,
Stemming the tide of Egypt.
Cleor. O comfort me, my husband's mother! say,
My lord may live and conquer!
Crat. Possibly;
But still make sure of death; trust we to that,
As to our last reserve.
Cleor. Alas! I dare not die.
Crat. Come, come, you dare: