The city’s anger must be under it.
Cratidas. Ah me, I tremble: my poor lamb’s the cause
Of such blind fury. Bitter, is it not,
That her last kinsman, hearing, cannot help her?
Didymus. Cratidas, I would help! Read possible aid
In this firm-sinewed arm. Speak.
Cratidas. That I do,
As unto a well-wisher. I distrust
Our fickle and tempestuous populace,
Greek, Roman, Jew, Egyptian, multiform.