Your elder son you gave me for adoption:
He’s mine, then, Demea; and if he offends,
’Tis an offense to me, and I must bear
The burden. Does he treat? or drink? or dress?
’Tis at my cost.—Or wench? I will supply him,
While ’tis convenient to me; when ’tis not,
His mistresses perhaps will shut him out.
—Has he broke open doors? we’ll make them good.
Or torn a coat? it shall be mended. I,
Thank Heaven, have enough to do all this,