Sostra. Patience, my Pamphilus! Is’t possible
You can’t endure one inconvenience in her?
If in all else, as I believe, you like her,
Dear son, be rul’d by me, and take her home!
Pam. Wretch that I am!
Sostra. And I am wretched too:
For this grieves me, my son, no less than you.
[ SCENE V.]
Enter Laches.
Lach. I have been standing at a distance, wife,