Dem. Aye, sure.
Hegio. He has debauch’d his daughter.
Dem. How!
Hegio. Hold, Demea, for the worst is still to come.
Dem. Is there aught worse?
Hegio. Much worse: for this perhaps
Might be excus’d. The night, love, wine, and youth,
Might prompt him. ’Tis the frailty of our nature.
—Soon as his sense returning made him conscious
Of his rash outrage, of his own accord