To him they’re blessings; he that knows it not,
To him misuse converts them into curses.
Clit. Nay, but he ever was a cross old man:
And now there’s nothing that I dread so much,
As lest he be transported in his rage
To some gross outrages against his son.
Chrem. He!—He!—But I’ll contain myself. ’Tis good
For Menedemus that his son should fear. (Aside.)
Clit. What say you, Sir, within yourself! (Overhearing.)
Chrem. I say,