Syrus. Gold, clothes!
It grows late too, and they may miss their way.
We’ve been to blame: Dromo, run back, and meet them.
Away! quick, quick! don’t loiter.
Away! quick! don’t loiter.
Exit Dromo.
Clin. What a wretch!
All my fair hopes quite blasted!
Clit. What’s the matter?
What is it troubles you?