A harmless, lambent fire. She kisses cold;
But kind, and soft, and sweet, as my Cleora.
Oh, could we know
What joys she brings, at least, what rest from grief;
How should we press into her friendly arms,
And be pleased not to be, or to be happy!
Crat. Look, what we have forgot! The joy to see
Cleora here, has kept us from enquiring,
By what strange means she entered.
Cleom. Small joy, heaven knows, to be adopted here,