Enough to stir the blood of a crocodile like yourself:
I catch you weeping—slap! all’s changed. ’Tis not a play:
The stage is yóur hóme, the actors your father and mother,
Your own sister is found, & where’s your feeling now?
I think your heart is made of matting! Your friend, I say,
Is far more moved: I see the tears stand in his eyes.
1150
Clin. ’Tis joy. I wish you joy, sir. I wish your daughter joy.
And, may I say it, your happiness brings happiness to me.
Chr. I thank you, Clitipho; but now we go too fast: