Cleom. 'Tis poison; and my mother, and my wife,
And my poor famished boy, are eating death.
Thou would'st not have me think, that thou repent'st?
Clean. Heaven knows, I do not!
Cleom. Well said, man! Go on; and be not bashful,
To own the merits of thy wickedness.
Clean. What need has innocence of a repentance?
Cleom. Shuffling again! Pr'ythee, be of a piece.
A little steadiness becomes a villain.