I’m glad to see you safe return’d to town.
Laches. Whom do you wait for?
Par. I’m undone: my tongue
Cleaves to my mouth through fear.
Laches. Ha! what’s the matter?
Why do you tremble so? Is all right? Speak!
Par. First be persuaded, Sir,—for that’s the case,
Whatever has befall’n has not befall’n
Through any fault of mine.
Laches. What is’t?