Cleom. Go,
My mother, my Cleora, and my boy. [Stroking Cleon.
Your ears would be polluted with such ills,
Which I must try to mollify, before
They reach your tender hearing.
Cleor. I obey you.
But let not grief disorder you too much
For what you lost.
For me, while I have you, and you are kind,
I ask no more of heaven.