Clin. What troubles me?
D’ye hear? She waiting-women, gold, and clothes!
She, whom I left with one poor servant-girl!
Whence come they, think you?
Clit. Oh, I take you now.
Syrus (to himself). Gods, what a crowd! our house will hardly hold them.
What eating, and what drinking will there be!
How miserable our old gentleman!
But here are those I wish’d to see!
Seeing Clit. and Clin.