That shakes him like an earthquake, which he presses,
And will not give it vent: I know him well.
He blushes, and would speak, and wants a voice;
And stares and gapes like a forbidden ghost,
Till he be spoke to first.—Tell me, my son!
Cleom. Mother, I will.—And yet I cannot neither. [Aside.
Mother! that word has struck me dumb again:
For, how can I say mother, and propound
To leave her here behind, who gave me life?
Mother! and wife! and son! the names that nature