But made me just your drudge, to love and save you.
Ptol. 'Protest I thought them honest; are they not?
Cas. Ye gods! why did you make this man your image?
And made him but an image?—You'll forgive me;
I love you so, that I am forced to rail.
You saw no close conveyance of the game
Betwixt the crafty sire and cunning son;
How slily one invented an excuse,
And t'other took it up as dexterously!
Ptol. Why, sure Cleanthes was his father's spy?