That Bacchis is his mistress.
Clit. Mighty fine!
What shall become then of his own? Shall she
Pass for his too, because one’s not enough
To answer for?
Syrus. No. She shall to your mother.
Clit. How so?
Syrus. ’Twere tedious, Clitipho, to tell:
Let it suffice, I’ve reason for it.
Clit. Nonsense!