Both sound asleep already,
And farewell both for one short moment.
Those are the foes; our little band is lost
For want of these defenders. I must hasten,
Lest I be forced to live, and led in triumph,
Defrauded of my fate. I've earned it well,
And finished all my task: This is my place,
Just at my master's feet.—Guard him, ye gods,
And save his sacred corpse from public shame.
[He falls on his Sword, and lies at the foot of Cleomenes.—Dies.