Another then.
Clit. Well, well; since I must marry,
I know one pretty near my mind.
Sostra. Good boy!
Clit. The daughter of Archonides, our neighbor.
Sostra. Well chosen!
Clit. One thing, father, still remains.
Chrem. What?
Clit. That you’d grant poor Syrus a full pardon
For all that he hath done on my account.