Cleo. Dear Brother— [Goes to him.
Silv. Ah, Cleonte— [Takes her by the Hand and gazes.
Cleo. What would you, Sir?
Silv. I am not—well—
Cleo. Sleep, Sir, will give you ease.
Silv. I cannot sleep, my Wounds do rage and burn so, as they put me past all power of rest.
Cleo. We’ll call your Surgeon, Sir.
Silv. He can contribute nothing to my Cure,
But I must owe it all to thee, Cleonte.
Cleo. Instruct me in the way, give me your Arm,