Syrus. Stay, you shall have it presently. (Thinking.)
Clit. Well, what?
Syrus. Thus then: I don’t believe that you’re their son.
Clit. How Syrus! are you mad?
Syrus. I’ll speak my thoughts.
Be you the judge. While they had you alone,
While yet there was no other nearer joy,
You they indulg’d, and gave with open hand:
But now a daughter’s found, their real child,
A cause is found to drive you forth.