Syrus, I say.
Syrus. So, he grows hot at last. (To himself.)
What would you, Sir? (Turning about.)
Clit. Come back, come back!
Syrus. I’m here. (Returns.)
You’re pleasure, Sir!—What, will not this content you?
Clit. Yes, Syrus; me, my passion, and my fame
I render up to you: dispose of all;
But see you’re not to blame.
Syrus. Ridiculous!