And this is my return, to cause her death.
Crat. Peace! your misfortunes cause it, not your fault.
Enter Cleora.
Cleom. What! my Cleora?
I stretched my bounds as far as I could go,
To shun the sight of what I cannot help;
A flower withering on the stalk, for want
Of nourishment from earth, and showers from heaven,
All I can give thee is but rain of eyes. [Wiping his Eyes.
Cleor. Alas! I have not wherewithal to weep;