I fear she’s fall’n from virtue in my absence:
So many things concur to prove it so,
My mind misgives me; opportunity,
The place, her age, an infamous old mother,
Under whose governance she lives, to whom
’Naught but gain’s precious.
To him Clitipho.
Clit. Clinia!
Clin. Woe is me! (To himself.)
Clit. Take heed, lest some one issue from your father’s,