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                          Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. All other
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                            POETICAL WORKS
                                  of
                            ROBERT BRIDGES

                               Volume VI

                         [Publisher’s device]

                                London
                          Smith, Elder & Co.
                           15 Waterloo Place
                                 1905

                          OXFORD: HORACE HART
                       PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

                  _POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BRIDGES_

                     _VOLUME THE SIXTH CONTAINING_

  _THE FEAST OF BACCHUS_                                          _p._ 1

  _SECOND PART OF THE HISTORY
  OF NERO_                                                           123

  _NOTES_                                                            275

LIST OF PREVIOUS EDITIONS

_FEAST OF BACCHUS._

 1. _THE FEAST OF BACCHUS. By Robert Bridges. Privately printed by H.
 Daniel: Oxford, 1889. Small 4to

 2. _THE F.O.B. A Comedy in the Latin manner and partly translated from
 Terence. By Robert Bridges. Published by Geo. Bell & Sons, Covent
 Garden, and J. & E. Bumpus, Lim., Holborn Bars. 4to. [1894.]_

_NERO._

 1. _NERO. Part 2. From the death of Burrus to the death of Seneca,
 comprising the conspiracy of Piso. Published by Geo. Bell & Sons, and
 F. & E. Bumpus. [1894.]_

                             THE FEAST OF
                                BACCHUS

                               A COMEDY
                          IN THE LATIN MANNER

                                   &

                        PARTLY TRANSLATED FROM
                                TERENCE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  _MENEDEMUS_                      _an Athenian gentleman_.
  _CHREMES_             _a retired Ionian sponge-merchant_.
  _CLINIA_                              _son to Menedemus_.
  _PAMPHILUS_                             _son to Chremes_.
  _PHILOLACHES_            _an actor, friend to Pamphilus_.

  _SOSTRATA_                             _wife to Chremes_.
  _ANTIPHILA_     _daughter of Chremes, beloved of Clinia_.
  _GORGO_                           _beloved of Pamphilus_.

 _The scene is in a suburb of Athens, opposite the house of Chremes
 (L): on the other side is Menedemus’ garden (R): this occupies most
 of the back of the stage: a gate from the garden gives on the stage:
 between the garden and Chremes’ house a road runs down to the city._

 _Duration of time—a few hours of one day. There is no pause in the
 action, and the whole may be played continuously with a formal break
 at the end of each act._

                         THE FEAST OF BACCHUS

                                ACT · I

                _MENEDEMUS seen at work in his garden._

               _CHREMES calling to him over the hedge._

                              _CHREMES._

    GOOD morning, sir! good morning!

    (_Aside._) He does not hear me.—Sir!
    Good morning!

    (_Aside._) No: he goes on digging away for his life—
    Ho! Menedemus! Ho!

                             _MENEDEMUS._

                      Who is it calls?

    _Chr._                       ’Tis I.

    _Men._ Chremes! why, what’s the matter?

    _Chr._                 I only said good morning.
    I wish you the compliments of the day. ’Tis the feast of Bacchus.

    _Men._ I thank you. The same to you.

    _Chr._               I had something to say besides,
    If you are at leisure.

    _Men._             Now?

    _Chr._                Yes, now.

    _Men._                       You see I am busy:
    But if ’tis a matter of any importance—

    _Chr._                               Indeed it is.

    _Men._ Pray step to the gate: I’ll open it for you.

    _Chr._                           You are very good.
    (_Aside._) How fagged he looks!

    _Men._                       Come in. You will not think me rude,
    If I ask you to tell your errand while I dig.

    _Chr._                                  Excuse me,                11
    My good friend; and your spade, pray you, awhile put down.
    You must stop working.

    _Men._            No: I cannot rest a minute.

    _Chr._ I can’t allow it indeed. (_Taking the spade._)

    _Men._                      Now, sir, you wrong me.

    _Chr._                                           Hey!
    My word! what a weight it is!

    _Men._                   It’s not too heavy for me.

    _Chr._ Come! what’s all this? well take it again, but don’t
       refuse me
    A moment’s attention.

    _Men._           Well!

    _Chr._              ’Tis a matter concerns you nearly:
    So leave your work, and come outside, and sit on the bench,
    Where we may talk.

    _Men._         Whatever you have to say, Chremes,
    May be said here.

    _Chr._       No doubt; but better as I propose:                   20
    I will not detain you long.

    _Men._                 What is it?

    _Chr._                          Sit you down.

    _Men._ You have something to say.

    _Chr._                         Not while you stand.

    _Men._ (_sitting_).              Well, as you will.
    And now in as few words as may be ... I am at your service.—
    Explain.

    _Chr._ Menedemus, although our acquaintance has been but short,
    And only dates from the day you bought this piece of land.
    And came to live close by me: for little or nought but that
    Occasioned it, as you know: yet my respect for you,
    Or else your being a neighbour, for that itself, I take it,
    Counts in some sort as friendship, makes me bold and free
    To give you a piece of advice: the fact is, you seem to me        30
    To be working here in a manner, which both to your time of life
    And station, is most unsuitable. What, in Heaven’s name,
    Can be your object? what do you drive at? To guess your age
    You are sixty years at least. There’s no one hereabouts
    Can shew a better farm, nor more servants upon it:
    And yet you do the work yourself, as tho’ you had none.
    Never do I go out, however early in the morning,
    Never come home again, however late at night,
    But here I see you digging, hoeing, or at all events
    Toiling at something or other. You are never a moment idle,       40
    Nor shew regard for yourself. Now all this can’t be done
    For pleasure, that I am sure of, and as for any profit,
    Why, if you only applied half the energy
    To stirring up your servants, both you and your farm
    Would do much better.

    _Men._ Have you so much spare time then, Chremes,
    Left from your own affairs to meddle with other people’s?
    The which moreover do not concern you.

    _Chr._                           I am a man.
    Nought which concerns mankind concerns not me, I think.
    Ere I advise, I’d first enquire what ’tis you do;                 49
    If well, to learn by example; if ill, then to dissuade.

    _Men._ My duty is this: do you as best may suit yourself.

    _Chr._ What man can say ’tis right for him to torment himself?

    _Men._ I can.

    _Chr._     If it is any sorrow or trouble that has driven you to this,
    I am very sorry. But ... what is it? Tell me, I pray.
    Whatever can you have done, that calls for such a penance?

    _Men._ Ay me!

    _Chr._ Come! don’t give way: confide to me this affair.
    Trust me: keep nothing back, I entreat you: have no fear.
    Surely I may either help, or advise, or at least console you.

    _Men._ You really wish to know?

    _Chr._                    Yes, for the reason I gave.

    _Men._ I’ll tell you.

    _Chr._          What is it?

    _Men._                 I have an only son, Chremes—
    Alas what say I? have? had I should rather say;
    For whether now I have or not, I cannot tell.                     62

    _Chr._ How so?

    _Men._       You shall hear: attend. There came to live in the city
    A poor old widow woman from Corinth. She had a daughter,
    With whom my son, who is just of age, fell madly in love,
    Was even at the point to marry: and all without my knowledge.
    However it came to my ears; and then I began to treat him
    Unkindly, and not in the way to deal with a love-sick lad;
    But after the usual dictatorial manner of fathers.                69
    I never left him in peace. _Don’t think, my fine fellow_,
    I’d say, _that you’ll be allowed to continue behaving thus,
    While I am alive to prevent it; running after a girl
    And talking of marrying too: you are very much mistaken,
    Clinia, if you think that. You don’t know me. I am glad
    To have you called my son, while you respect your honour;
    But if you once forget it, I shall find a means,
    And one you will not like, of asserting my own. All this
    I see very plainly_, I said, _has come from idle habits.
    You have not enough to do. When I was your age
    I did not fritter away my time in making love;_                   80
    _But finding my pockets empty, set out for Asia,
    And won myself distinction and fortune in foreign service._
    At last, Chremes, it came to this: the poor young fellow,
    Continually hearing the same thing put so strongly to him,
    Gave in: he thought my age and due regard for his welfare
    Were likely to shew him a wiser and more prudent course
    Than his own feelings;—he left the country, and went to fight
    Under the king of Persia.

    _Chr._                Indeed?

    _Men._                     He started off
    One day without a word. He has now been gone six months.

    _Chr._ Both were to blame; however I think the step that he took  90
    Was the act of a modest and not unmanly disposition.

    _Men._ I enquired of some of his friends, and when I learnt
       the truth,
    I returned home to my house miserable, my mind
    Unhinged—distracted with grief. I sat me down; my servants
    Came running to know my pleasure; some drew off my shoes,
    Others were hastening to and fro to prepare my dinner,
    Each anxious by doing his best to lessen the pain
    Of my great misfortune: in vain: the sight of them made me think,
    ‘What! is it then for me alone that all these persons
    So busily are engaged? all for my comfort?                       100
    For me is it that so many women are spinning; for me
    This great household expense & luxury are maintained?
    And my only son, who in all should equally share with me—
    Nay, should have the larger share, since at his age he is able
    Better to use such things & enjoy them—him, poor boy,
    I have driven out of the house by my unkindness. No,
    I had rather die than do it. While he leads a life
    Of poverty & of hardship, exiled from home & country
    By my severe treatment, so long will I visit                     109
    His punishment on myself, labouring, fasting, saving,
    Serving and slaving for him.’ I began there and then;
    I stripped the house for a sale, left nothing in it, not a dish
    To eat off, not a coat to put on. I collected everything:
    And as for the men and maids, excepting such as were able
    To work the cost of their living out on my fields, I sent them
    To market and sold them, I put up a notice, THIS HOUSE TO LET;
    And setting the price of all, some fifty talents, together,
    I bought this farm, and am well convinced at heart, Chremes,
    That in making myself miserable I act more justly
    Towards him, my absent son; and that ’twere crime to indulge     120
    In any comfort, till he return home safe again
    To share it with me.

    _Chr._         I see that you are a kind father;
    And he, I think, had been a dutiful son, if treated
    With moderation and judgment: but look, you did not know
    Each other well enough: a common fault to observe
    In family life, and one destructive of happiness.
    You never let him perceive how dear he was to you,
    So he dared not confide in you, when it was his duty:
    To have done the one or other had spared you this misfortune.

    _Men._ ’Tis as you say, I admit; but I was the more to blame.    130

    _Chr._ True. And to lose a child is deplorable. I had myself
    The same misfortune without my fault. A daughter it was,
    Stolen from me I know not how: my second child, a babe.
    That’s fifteen years ago. I was living at Ephesus,
    Where such events are regarded as commonish accidents.
    I know not where she was taken, have never heard of her since;
    And tho’ I have not forgot it, my own experience is,
    One does entirely get over the sort of thing—I assure you.

    _Men._ ’Tis kind of you thus to recall your sorrow to comfort mine.
    My condolence can make a distinction: the child you lost         140
    Was a daughter, a babe, you say. Clinia was my only son,
    Grown up. Besides you admit you were not at all to blame:
    I brought this on myself. See, friend, the difference!

    _Chr._ However I see no reason yet to despair, Menedemus.
    You will have him safe at home again, and soon, I am sure.

    _Men._ The gods grant it.

    _Chr._               They will. And now, ’tis the feast of Bacchus;
    We keep a birthday too. I hope, if it is agreeable,
    That you will come and dine at my house.

    _Men._                             I can’t.

    _Chr._                                  Why not?
    Do pray now, after all you have done, allow yourself
    This little relaxation. Think your absent son                    150
    Is asking you through me.

    _Men._              It is not right that I,
    Who have driven him into hardships, should spend my time
       in pleasures.

    _Chr._ You will not change your mind?

    _Men._                          No.

    _Chr._                             Then I’ll say good-bye.

    _Men._ Good-bye.                                            [_Exit._

    _Chr._     A tear, I do believe; I am sorry for him.
    ’Tis lamentable to see goodness punished thus
    For lack of a little wisdom. Folly brings remorse,
    And again remorse folly: they tread the circle; and he
    Would mend one fault by another, and on himself revenge
    The wrong he has done his son. And that wrong too was not        159
    A real unkindness: no: mere want of common sense;
    It’s what I am always saying,—that is evil. To quote
    From the very profoundest of authors, my favourite Sophocles,
    _Wisdom is far away the chiefest of happiness._
    Of course a man may be happy, although he has lost his son,
    If it cannot be charged to his fault. In spite of the
       best intentions
    Menedemus is much to blame. Poor fellow, but I may assist him.
    And if I can, I will. I love to help a neighbour;
    ’Tis pleasure as well as duty: because it is a pleasure
    To be wiser than others, and even a friend’s predicament
    Increases the satisfaction I feel, when I think how well         170
    My own household is managed. But stay, ’tis time I went
    To see that all’s in order for the feast we hold to-night.
    There are one or two old friends, who’d take it much amiss
    Did I not ask them. Now at once I’ll go and find them.      [_Exit._

_Enter Pamphilus and Clinia._

    _PAMPHILUS._

    That queer old boy’s my father: didn’t you know him?

    _CLINIA._

                                                    No.
    How should I? but his name I know—Chremes.

    _Pam._                                You have it.
    Take care he hear not your name.

    _Clin._                    Why so, Pamphilus?
    What can he know of me? and if he knew ...

    _Pam._                               See, Clinia,
    That is our house, & here the hedge & paling bounds
    Your father’s.

    _Clin._     Here?

    _Pam._         You see what a stroke of luck it was
    To meet me when you did. You must have betrayed yourself         181
    By making enquiries, but I at the merest hint have led you
    Straight to the place: besides, if you wish to be near your father
    Without his knowing that you are returned, my governor
    Can put you up.

    _Clin._   Is it here?

    _Pam._                Yes, there.

    _Clin._                           For heaven’s sake
    Be careful; may he not see me?

    _Pam._                   If he looked over the myrtles
    No doubt he might.

    _Clin._      Hush! hush! He’ll hear you.

    _Pam._                                   All serene.
    He’s not this side: stand there: I’ll go & spy around.
    Keep out of sight.

    _Clin._      Stay, Pamphilus; are you really sure
    This is my father’s?

    _Pam._         This is the place they told me, and here
    A Menedemus lives, and has for the last six months.
    We’re right enough.

    _Clin._       I fear he’ll see us: pray come back.

    _Pam._ I thought you wished to see him.

    _Clin._                           Ay, and so I do;
    But nothing less in the world, if it should be the occasion      194
    Of his seeing me.

    _Pam._      Trust me: he won’t. I’ll speer about.
    He’s sure to be digging somewhere near.

    _Clin._                             Digging?

    _Pam._                                     If not,
    It is not old Menedemus.      (_Goes round peering._)

    _Clin._            Oh what can it mean,
    My father’s sudden change of home and manner of life?
    He that so loved the town: himself the very centre
    Of all good company, the best invited man,                       200
    And most besought in Athens. Nothing but great disgust
    Could thus have turned his temper. I am the cause, and one
    Of two things it must be; either he is more offended with me
    Than I supposed; or else, and this I hope and think,
    My flight, breaking the bond that surely was the nearest
    And dearest to him, has wrought upon him, and now he turns
    And will consent: if that, ’tis well I am here: if not,
    He must not come to know I am back in Athens: nay,
    ’Twould only vex him more: I must hide from him still:
    For though there is nothing in the extremest scope of duty       210
    In which I would not obey him but one thing, ’tis this thing
    I am pledged to. Love absolves me. Nay, ’tis not for him
    I am now returned. I have chosen; I am not ashamed: I made
    One dutiful effort—oh intolerable! I am come,
    Sweetest Antiphila, to marry thee, and I will marry thee;
    Without consent, if must be, against my father’s will—
    Yet now I have hope; and whether rightly or wrongly I hope
    I must discover.

(_Pamphilus returns to Clinia._)

    _Pam._     It’s very funny: he’s not to be seen.

    _Clin._ What shall I do?

    _Pam._                 To-day’s my birthday, Clinia:
    We have asked some friends to come: if you will be my guest,      220
    Our house is very handy. No one shall hear your name.
    My father will not suspect you.

    _Clin._                   I thank you. There’s no need.

    _Pam._ I’ll call you Clitipho.

    _Clin._                  No, no, I am ill-disposed
    For company. Pray excuse me. Besides I am sure your father
    Must be acquainted with mine.

    _Pam._                  I doubt it. He often says
    He wonders who in the world his eccentric neighbour is.
    But whether he knows or not we’ll soon find out: for look,
    He is coming down the road. Stand back where you can hear;
    And if he has any knowledge that can be of use to you,
    I’ll worm it out.

_Re-enter Chremes._

    _Chr._        What are you doing, Pamphilus,                     230
    Looking over the hedge into our neighbour’s garden?
    Do you not know how vulgar curiosity is?
    Spying and prying thus into other folk’s affairs.
    I am quite ashamed of you, sir!

    _Pam._                    I was only looking to see
    If I could catch a glimpse of old Menedemus, father.
    I’ve found out something about him.

    _Chr._                        Eh! and what is that?

    _Pam._ Have you ever heard of Clinia?

    _Chr._                          Clinia, Clinia? Yes—
    Of course, why he’s Menedemus’ son, who is now in Persia.
    I know about him.

    _Pam._      Well, he’s an old school-friend of mine.

    _Chr._ Is he?

    _Pam._        You know when first I came to school at Athens,      240
    He was kind to me, and afterwards, when we all came here to live,
    I met him again. I never dreamed that ’twas his father,
    Who took this place next door. I used to hear he was quite
    A different sort of person.

    _Chr._                Ay, no doubt he was.
    The trouble his son has brought upon him has broke him down.

    _Pam._ Why, Clinia had no debts.

    _Chr._                     Perhaps he had no debts:
    But I could tell you more about him than you imagine.
    I have never been able to take any pleasure, Pamphilus,
    In any one of your friendships; and now I am grieved to find
    You are intimate with this foolish, dissolute young man.         250
    Evil communications corrupt good manners.

    _Pam._ Clinia is not that sort at all.

    _Chr._                             You do not know.

    _Pam._ I know he fell in love with a girl that lives in the town,
    And wanted to marry her, only his father would not hear of it,
    And sent him off to Asia, and now—

    _Chr._                         He ran away.

    _Pam._ And if he did, no wonder, considering his father’s
       treatment.

    _Chr._ He should not have done so.

    _Pam._              I take it his father’s sorry now.

    _Chr._ Of course all parents are always sorry for their sons’
       misconduct.

    _Pam._ But he has far more cause to be sorry now for his own.

    _Chr._ You think so?

    _Pam._            Yes, I do.

    _Chr._ (_aside_).         I must not let my son                  260
    Know how this old man dotes. If he should think all fathers
    As soft as poor Menedemus, pretty pranks he’d play me!

    _Pam._ What were you saying?

    _Chr._         Ha! I’ll tell you what I was saying;
    That in any case his duty was to have stayed at home.
    ’Tis possible that his father was somewhat more severe
    Than he found pleasant; but still he should have put up with it.
    For whom sh^d a lad submit to, if not to his own father?
    Ought his father, tell me, to have fallen in with him,
    Or he with his father? And then what he is pleased to call
    A hardship, was nothing of the kind: the so-called severities      270
    Of fathers are much of a piece: the least strict do not like
    To see their sons continually in bad company,
    Continually drinking: and so they are sparing in what they allow them;
    For such restrictions, remember, promote good morals.
    But when a man’s mind has once become the slave
    Of evil passions, he is driven of necessity from bad to worse.
    There’s wisdom, Pamphilus, in the saying, _By others’ faults
    Wise men correct their own._

    _Pam._                 I think so too.

    _Chr._                             Very well.
    Then I need say no more.

    _Pam._                 Would not the old man, sir,
    Be glad to see him back?

    _Chr._             He would be glad to see him
    Return from his evil ways to a dutiful course of conduct.        281

    _Pam._ I guess he’d let him marry the girl.

    _Chr._ (_aside_).                           What shall I say?

    _Pam._ He would.

    _Chr._ Nay, Pamphilus: attend to me. No father
    Would ever give in to his son in a matter of this kind.
    Learn this lesson: see what shame your friend has brought
    On his poor old father. No, ’twould never do to yield.
    I can promise you too that he will not. I should not advise it myself.

    _Pam._ You don’t know Clinia, sir; and have never seen the girl.
    You go entirely by what this old Menedemus says.
    He never saw her himself.

    _Chr._ (_aside_). That’s true.—And you have seen her?

    _Pam._ I have.

    _Chr._       And what is she like?

    _Pam._                         I never saw anything like her.

    _Chr._ Come, what d’ye mean?

    _Pam._        I tell you, I know now what she’s like—
    The statue that stands in the hall: the third on the left.

    _Chr._                                      The Grace?
    An elegant taste.

    _Pam._     If you were to see her, you’d say the same.

    _Chr._ Should I? Then just attend. I wish to help my neighbour.
    If all were ready to lend their neighbours a helping hand,
    We should not hear the complaints we do against ill fortune.
    I am always ready myself; am now: in point of fact
    I have promised to do what I can: but since, before I act,       299
    Or even judge, I am willing to know all sides of a case,
    ’Tis part of my duty to see this girl. Could you procure
    That I should speak with her?

    _Pam._ (_aside_).          This is the very thing we want.
    If now I could get him to ask Antiphila here to-day,
    Clinia of course would come: I’ll try and work it.

    _Chr._                                       Well?
    Answer me. Could you do this?

    _Pam._                  Yes, father.

    _Chr._                               When?

    _Pam._                                     To-day.

    _Chr._ I did not mean to-day.

    _Pam._                  There’s no time like the present.

    _Chr._ For inconvenience?

    _Pam._              No; for opportunity.

    _Chr._ How so?

    _Pam._   Invite her here to spend the feast with us,
    And bring a friend.

    _Chr._        But would she come?

    _Pam._                            Yes, she would come.

    _Chr._ Whom have you asked besides?

    _Pam._                        Only Philolaches.

    _Chr._ It happens, Pamphilus, we are short of guests; I find      311
    My old friend Phanias has gone from home to-day.
    Archonides’ wife is ill; they cannot come: and now
    Just the last thing Daniel has disappointed me.
    The two young ladies would help us out: besides I am sure
    ’Twould please your mother to ask them.

    _Pam._                            I cannot agree with you there.

    _Chr._ Allow me to judge of that; and since you said you were able
    To bring them—bring them.

    _Pam._               Oh, if you wish it, I’m ready enough;
    I’ll see they come: but I had forgotten; there is one more
    Besides Philolaches.

    _Chr._         Who then? I beg you’ll bring                      320
    None of your Clinias here.

    _Pam._               He that is with me now.

    _Chr._ He is it? That’s quite another thing: A gentleman
    At first sight, Pamphilus; I wish that all your friends
    Were such as he. By all means bring him. Present him now.
    His name?

    _Pam._ Clitipho.

    _Chr._ (_aside_). I like his appearance much:
    When I came up he went respectfully aside—
    Excellent manners. (_To Clin._) Ha, good Clitipho, how d’ye do?
    ’Tis time that we were acquainted. I understand my son
    Has invited you to our house. There’s not much I can offer,      329
    But _My little pot is soon hot_. I am very glad
    And proud to have you my guest.

    _Clin._              I thank you, sir; I am sorry—

    _Chr._ No thanks, I pray. At present excuse me; for I must go
    And prepare my wife to receive her guests. You’re sure
       they’ll come?

    _Pam._ Sure.

    _Chr._       And I hope they may. ’Twill make our numbers up:
    We’ll have a merry feast.

    _Pam._             Ay, sir....               [_Exit Chremes within._
                              And so we shall,
    Clinia.

    _Clin._ What have you done?

    _Pam._                Why pretty well, I think.

    _Clin._ I did not look for this, nor wish it, and do not like it.

    _Pam._ Not like it! Is it not perfect? If all the gods in heaven
    Had put their heads together to assist in your affairs,
    They could not have done it better than I. My father bids        340
    You and Antiphila both to spend the day; and he,
    Charmed with her grace and beauty, will use his influence
    To bring your father round.

    _Clin._               I would not risk so much
    On the fancy of any man: and though I have a hope
    Antiphila’s charms will plead not vainly, that must be
    When she’s my wife, not now: and they must urge themselves;
    Another cannot paint them.

    _Pam._               I do beseech you, Clinia,
    Don’t leave a friend in the lurch. Hark you; to tell the truth,
    My scheme suits me to a T as well as you. My father
    Expects Antiphila to bring a companion with her:
    Now I have a lady friend, with whom I am circumstanced           351
    Much as you are with yours. My father, just as yours,
    Would never hear of my asking her home; but if she comes
    To-day as Antiphila’s friend, he’ll not guess who she is;
    So you may have your love to yourself, & I have mine.
    And see, here comes Philolaches, our other guest:
    I’ll tell him what is arranged: he’ll be a strong ally.

    _Clin._ Indeed, I can’t consent: and who is Philolaches,
    That you sh^d wish to tell him all my private affairs?

    _Pam._ Ah, he can smell a rat; but don’t be afraid of him;       360
    He’s my sworn friend: & sure no less to keep a secret,
    Than he is to find out anything in the mortal world
    That you seek to withhold.

    _Clin._              I pray, say nothing to him of me.

    _Pam._ Trust us; we won’t betray you.

(_Runs back to meet Phil._)

    _Clin._                          Pamphilus! why he’s gone.
    Now save me from my friends! Indeed this Pamphilus
    Will be my ruin: I wish to heaven I had never met him.
    He’ll tell his father next, this old Ionian huckster,
    Sponge-mongering Chremes; the gods defend me from him,
    And his family feast, and his prosy wisdom! I thought to spend
    This day of my return with sweet Antiphila:                      370
    And here I am, caught by the ears. And yet my troublesome friend
    Means well: I would not hurt his feelings; but at any cost
    I must get clear, and in one matter I cannot yield:
    I will not have Antiphila brought to the judgment-seat
    Of this suburban oracle. What has he to do
    With me & mine, my father or her—to push his nose
    Into our affairs?

_Re-enter Pamphilus with Philolaches._

    _Pam._      Allow me, Clinia, here’s my friend
    Philolaches, the actor. Philolaches, my friend
    Clinia: who is, as I told you, in Persia, you understand.
    He looks for some assurance of your discretion.

    _PHILOLACHES._

                                                    Sir,             380
    You have it. Take this hand. And by the dog I swear
    Not to divulge a tittle; in friendship’s secrecy
    Rather to aid—

    _Clin._   No need, sir: I take the will for the deed.
    My business is my own, and not of such a kind
    As another can help in.

    _Pam._            Oh, but he can.

    _Ph._                             A family quarrel—
    Meddling of course resented. But while your father, sir,
    Treats you so ill, expels you his house, denies his ear
    To the pitiful plea—

    _Clin._         Excuse me again. I do not know
    That my father is ill-disposed.

    _Ph._ (_to Pam._).              You told me.

    _Pam._                                 I said he _was_;
    But Clinia hopes he may now be changed.

    _Ph._                             If that’s the case,            390
    I see that your wish must be, that I sh^d discover at once
    Your father’s temper towards you.

    _Clin._                     Indeed, sir, I do not wish it.

    _Ph._ I die to serve you.

    _Clin._             I thank you.

    _Ph._                            I promise to find it out
    In half an hour.

    _Clin._    How would you?

    _Ph._                     I am an actor, sir;
    Never so much myself as when I seem another.
    Would you employ my talent—

    _Clin._                Why, what would you do?

    _Ph._ Disguise myself as a Persian, late arrived in Athens:
    Go to your father’s house & bring him tidings of you.
    How the old man took what I should tell him would teach you all.
    Nay, I can promise more; that, if there’s left in him
    The last wandering spark of affection, I’ll blow it to flame,      401
    And you shall twist him round your thumb.

    _Pam._                              Bravo!

    _Clin._                                    But, sir,
    What tidings would you feign?

    _Ph._                   That is as I should find him:
    If soft, I’d handle him kindly: if hard, I’d say I’d seen you
    Sick of a fever, enslaved, imprisoned, or, if required,
    Dead and buried.

    _Clin._    And so you would give him needless pain.

    _Pam._ That is the question, Clinia; if you were sure of that,
    You would not be hiding.

    _Clin._            Nay, but the doubt will not excuse me
    In doing the thing, which I still must hope would pain him most.

    _Ph._ What matter, when all the time you are just behind
      the hedge?                                                     410
    No reason I see to wound him: I shall feel my way.
    An hour will settle all. If he be kindly bent,
    Or I can move him towards you, you must stand prepared
    To strike while the iron is hot. The lady, I understand,
    Will be with you here: be ready, and when I give the word,
    You step across the road and kneel for the old man’s blessing.

    _Clin._ I have told you, Pamphilus, Antiphila must not come.
    Your father’s interference is most unfortunate:
    He is not my judge for good or ill. It shall not be.

    _Pam._ I have promised.

    _Clin._           I am determined.

    _Ph._                              A very delicate point.        420
    And yet ’tis a pity they should not come.

    _Pam._                              O Clinia,
    Your obstinacy will ruin all.

    _Ph._ (_to Pam._).            I understand.
    Your friend objects to the lady coming, because he thinks
    Your father will know her?

    _Pam._               And so he will.

    _Ph._                                Nay, not at all.
    Chremes need never know her.

    _Pam._                 How can you manage that?

    _Ph._ The thing’s as easy as lying. Let the ladies change
    Their names; or if so be Chremes knows not their names,
    Let them but change their parts. Gorgo—for that’s the lady,      428
    Whom you would bring, I guess—let Gorgo pass to-day
    For Clinia’s mistress; let Antiphila play the maid;
    W^h hinders not that when they come, each take his own.
    You have your Gorgo; you, sir, your Antiphila:
    And none will be any the wiser.

    _Pam._                    Good. What say you now?

    _Clin._ ’Twould make all kinds of complications, Pamphilus:
    And all to no manner of purpose.

    _Pam._                     Why, I should keep my promise,
    And spend the day with Gorgo.

    _Clin._                 I’ll play no part in this.
    You quite forget besides that as yet I know not how
    Antiphila will receive me. I have been six months away;
    She may have thrown me over, may have another lover,
    And think of me no more.

    _Ph._              Wish you to find out that?                    440
    I’ll serve you too in this. Give me the word to go
    And visit her where she lives, and if I find her true,
    To bring her along at once.

    _Clin._               ’Tis extremely kind of you, sir,
    To throw yourself so quickly and hotly into my affairs:
    But indeed I do not need it.

    _Ph._                  ’Tis plain to me you do.
    A runaway just returned, afraid to face his father,
    Fearful lest in his absence his mistress have proved untrue—
    Not need a friend? Why a friend is just what you do need,
    To discover for you the state of affairs, and put you in train.

    _Clin._ Though, sir, I were quite content to reckon upon
       your zeal,                                                    450
    Maybe you overrate your ability.

    _Ph._                      Not at all.
    Unless you will say that by art I am able to counterfeit
    Passion in all its branches, & yet not know the thing
    When I see it;—as if a man c^d write who cannot read.
    You think your love for this lady a secret between yourselves—
    That she would not reveal it to me, a stranger? How in the world
    Could she conceal it? Why, don’t you know that a girl in love
    Is _A B C_ to read? Trust me and let me try.

    _Pam._ Clinia, do yield, I pray.

    _Clin._                    I know not what to do.
    I’ll yield so far as this: that if Philolaches                   460
    Can, as he boasts, discover these two things for me, first
    How my father stands disposed to me now, and next
    Whether Antiphila’s heart is firm—and this so soon
    And easily as he thinks—I would not hinder him.
    One stipulation only: let him name what time
    Will cover the whole performance; for failing him, I’d like
    To take my affairs in hand myself. I’ll ask him then,
    When does he hope to do this?

    _Ph._                   Give me an hour apiece.

    _Clin._ This afternoon.

    _Ph._             Enough: a bargain. ’Tis two hearts
    To read—your father and mistress.

    _Clin._                      And both this afternoon.            470

    _Pam._ And bring the lady if she is true.

    _Clin._                             I said not that.

    _Pam._ Clinia, you must.

    _Ph._              Agree to this: I first will go
    And visit Antiphila; if she is willing, I bring her here,
    And here you may meet. But since she comes as Gorgo’s maid,
    ’Twill be easy for you to withdraw with her, where and
       when you choose:
    I meanwhile will angle your father.

    _Clin._ (_to Pam._).                Then thus I assent,
    That first, she is not introduced to your father; and secondly,
    That I may take her away when I choose.

    _Pam._                            Agreed.

    _Ph._                                     I’m off.
    But first a word with you (_to Pam._).

    _Pam._ (_to Clin._).                   O Clinia, I do thank you.
    But don’t stay out here longer: somebody is sure to see you.      480
    Go into the house.

    _Clin._      If you will come with me.

    _Pam._                                 I’ll come directly.

    _Clin._ I have never met your people. I can’t go in by myself.

    _Pam._ Why, man alive, there’s only my father and mother. Go in.
                                                  [_Exit Clinia within._

    _Ph._ Your friend has money?

    _Pam._                 Yes, his father.

    _Ph._                                   If I succeed,
    He’ll give me something?

    _Pam._             Surely. What are you going to do?

    _Ph._ I’m going to dress myself up as a Persian—didn’t you hear?
    To take in old Menedemus.

    _Pam._              May I help?

    _Ph._                           Why, yes,
    If you will do as I tell: you shall be Persian in chief,
    Swagger and talk the gibberish: I’ll be interpreter.
    Two are better than one, tho’ one be a tup’s head.

    _Pam._ Menedemus knows me by sight.

    _Ph._                         Not in a Persian dress.            491
    Come, there’s no time to lose. I’ll go to the lady first:
    What is her name? Antiphila?

    _Pam._                 Yes.

    _Ph._                       And where does she live?

    _Pam._ I’ll come with you down the road, and tell you all as we go.
    But let’s be off. I fear Clinia may change his mind.

                                                              [_Exeunt._

ACT · II

_Enter PAMPHILUS._

_PAMPHILUS._

    What unjust judges fathers all are towards their children;
    Pretending to us as they do that the moment we cease to be boys
    We ought to become thorough old men, without a trace
    Of the inclinations natural to our time of life:
    Governing us by the rule of their present appetites,
    And not by those they have lost. If ever I have a son,
    He will find me an easy father, able to understand
    His faults, I hope, and ready to make allowance for them:
    Not like mine, suspicious & cross—& he never speaks
    But to read me a lecture on somebody else. Why, bless my soul,
    If he has but taken an extra glass or two, the tales
    Of his own wickedness he’ll come out with! And then he says,
    _By others’ faults wise men correct their own._ What wisdom!
    He little thinks how deaf an adder he is trying to charm.
    At present the words of my mistress touch me nearer far,         510
    When she says, Give me this, or, Bring me that; and I
    Have nothing to answer. Nobody could be in a worse plight.
    This fellow Clinia here has his hands full, yet his mistress
    Is modest & well brought up, too gentle & innocent
    To trifle with affection. Mine is a fine lady, exacting,
    Vain, fashionable & extravagant; & I lack the means
    To please her fancy. This misfortune is new to me—
    An experience, which I have only just begun to learn:
    And as yet my father guesses nothing of it.

                            _Enter Clinia._

                               _CLINIA._

                                                If all were well,
    They must have been here before: I fear there’s something
        happened,                                                    520
    Or that in my absence she may have become estranged from me.

    _Pam._ What now, man?

    _Clin._         O, I am most unhappy.

    _Pam._                                You had best take care,
    Or some one coming out of your father’s house may see you.

    _Clin._ I will; but, Pamphilus, I have a strong presentiment
    Of some misfortune, I know not what.

    _Pam._                         Why, what’s the matter?

    _Clin._ Were nothing the matter, they certainly would have been
       here by this.

    _Pam._ Nonsense. Doesn’t it strike you it’s some way off? and then
    You know how it is with women, they are always about a year
    Putting on their things and getting themselves up.

    _Clin._ But only fancy if really she should have forgotten me!      530
    Yes,—while like a fool I ran away from home,
    And wandered I know not where, fall’n in deep disgrace,
    Undutiful to my father, for whom I am now sorry
    And ashamed of my conduct towards him;—thou, yes, O thou hast
    Deserted me, my Antiphila. What shall I do?

    _Pam._                                Look, look!
    I see them coming.

    _Clin._      Where?

    _Pam._              Well, here’s Philolaches,
    Who comes to announce them, (_aside_) and on his shoulders a
       mighty bale
    Of Persian togs.

_Enter Philolaches with a large bundle._

    _Clin._    He has come without them! (_To Phil._) Tell me, sir,
    Do the ladies come?

    _PHILOLACHES._

                        They follow; I come before,
    Because there’s not a woman in Athens would walk with me         540
    Carrying such a bundle along the public streets.
    I was almost ashamed of myself.      (_Sets bundle down._)

    _Clin._                   But does she know I am here?

    _Ph._ Or else had never come.

    _Clin._                 You have actually seen her then?

    _Ph._ I’ll tell you all I saw. The business was, I think,
    To discover if she was true?

    _Clin._                It was. Indeed I feared—

    _Ph._ Then I have discovered it for you.

    _Clin._                            If you have really done so,
    Tell me your news at once.

    _Ph._                Attend. When first I came
    To the house, I knocked. Out came an old woman and opened the door;
    I struck past her into the room. Of all the ways
    Of finding out how she has been living all these months,         550
    This suddenly breaking in on her was the best: this gave me
    A pretty good guess at her usual way of spending the time:
    There’s nothing like it for showing what people really are.
    I came upon her hard at work at her tapestry,
    Dressed in a common gown: no gold about her; none
    Of the rouge and powder, that women bedaub their faces with:
    She was dressed like those who dress for themselves: her hair
        was loose
    And pushed back carelessly from her face—

    _Clin._                              Go on, I pray.

    _Ph._ The old woman was spinning the woof: one servant girl
        besides                                                      559
    Wove with her, quite in rags, untidy and dirty.

    _Pam._                                    Now,
    If this is true, I see you are safe. You would not find
    The servant a slattern, where there’s a lover.

    _Clin._                                  Pray go on.

    _Ph._ When I told her that you were returned, and had sent for her.
    She suddenly stopped in her work; the tears ran down her cheeks
    In such a way, it was easy to see ’twas for love of you.—

    _Clin._ Perdition take me now, if I know where I am for joy.
    I was so afraid.

    _Pam._     And Gorgo is coming?

    _Ph._                           Ay, no fear.
    But don’t forget who’s who.

    _Pam._                And have you taught the ladies
    Their parts?

    _Ph._ Antiphila’s part is nothing to learn at all;
    Except she must not call your friend by his right name:
    But Gorgo—

    _Pam._      What?

    _Ph._       Why she was hard to persuade, but once
    Persuaded, I do not fear her. I am more afraid of you;
    Don’t you forget that she doesn’t belong to you, mind!
        The slip                                                     573
    Of a word might ruin all. And don’t make signs.

    _Pam._                                    Trust me.
    See here they come.

    _Clin._       I see them.

    _Ph._                     Stay; let us stand aside;
    And watch them till they see us.

    _Clin._                    Why now?

    _Ph._                               I say, stand back.

    (_They retire._)

_Enter Gorgo and Antiphila._

    _GORGO._

      Upon my word, my dear Antiphila, I do praise
    And envy you too, when I see how all your study has been
    To make your mind as charming and sweet as your face. Lord love
       you!                                                          579
    I’m not surprised at any one wanting to marry you.
    I see from what you’ve said what kind of person you are;
    And when I come to think of the sort of life, which you
    And people like you, lead, who keep admirers off
    At arms’-length, then no wonder, I say, that you sh^d be
    Just what you are, and others, like me, so different.
    Then once your mind made up to share and spend your days
    With the man whose disposition is most congenial to you,
    He never leaves you more: for mutual benefits
    Must bind you so closely, that no misfortune can ever come
    To cross your love.

    _ANTIPHILA._

                        I cannot tell what others do;                590
    But I know I always have wished, and done my best, to find
    My happiness in what pleased him.

    _Clin._ (_aside_).                Ah, my Antiphila,
    And that is why I love you, why I am now returned.

    _Gor._ Who is that young man who is standing to look at us?

    _Ant._ Ah, hold me up!

    _Gor._           Why, what in the world’s the matter, my dear?

    _Ant._ I shall die; I shall die.

    _Gor._                     Do say, what is it astonishes you?

    _Ant._ Is it Clinia I see or not?

    _Gor._                      See who?

    _Clin._                              ’Tis I, my dearest.

    _Ant._ My long-expected Clinia, it is you.

    _Clin._                              Are you well?

    _Ant._ Oh, I am glad you have come back safe.

    _Clin._                                 Do I hold thee,
    Antiphila, thou most desired of my heart!

    _Ph._                               Take care.                   600
    Remember. Here comes the old man.

    (_Takes up the bundle._)

_Enter Chremes from his house._

    _CHREMES._

                                      I thought so; here you are.
    I heard your voices. I welcome you all. How very nice!
    Now, Pamphilus, pray present me!

    _Pam._ (_presenting Gorgo_).     This is the lady, sir.
    My father, miss.

    _Chr._ (_aside_). She is handsomely dressed. (_To Gorgo_) I am
        very proud
    To make your acquaintance. I hope the day may be fortunate.
    ’Twas kind of you now to come.

    _Gor._                   Why, bless your heart, old man,
    I thank ye: but all the same I came to please myself.

    _Chr._ (_aside_). My word!

    _Pam._               And this is the lady she brings with her.

    _Chr._ (_to Antiphila_).                          Ah, good-day.
    You are welcome, welcome all. Again, good Clitipho.
    Philolaches, I think. Good-day to you, sir! My word!
    What a gigantic bundle!

    _Ph._             Ay.

    _Chr._                What can it be?                            611

    _Ph._ The ladies’ cloaks and wraps.

    _Chr._                        Shame to load you thus!
    You know the proverb, _The willing horse_. Pray set them down.
    I’ll send a servant to take them.

    _Ph._                       Nay, ’tis the merest trifle.

    _Chr._ Why, yes: and I’ll call my wife: excuse me, ladies—a moment.
    Sostrata, Sostrata!...                   [_Goes into house calling._

    _Pam._ (_to Ph._). Follow me quick: this way, before my
        father is back.

                            [_Exeunt Pam. and Phil. into house at back._

    _Clin._ You know why I am returned?

    _Ant._                        Nay, you must tell me first
    What made you go away.

    _Clin._          I could not help it, love;
    My father—

    _Ant._      O, I know; but is he not kinder now?

    _Clin._ Nay, I’m afraid he is not.

_Re-enter Chremes with servant._

    _Chr._                       Ladies, my wife’s within.           620
    She begs you’ll enter. Why! & where is Philolaches?
    Clitipho, pray go in—no ceremony, sir—
    And take this lady with you. I follow.

    _Clin._                          I thank you, sir.

                     [_Exeunt Clinia and Antiphila with servant within._

    _Chr._ (_to Gorgo_). With you I beg one word of explanation alone,
    Ere we go in—one word—

    _Gor._             I wait your pleasure, sir.

    _Chr._ I do not wish to seem to meddle in your affairs.

    _Gor._ No matter for that.

    _Chr._               Believe me, that, if I interfere,
    It is for your good.

    _Gor._         I know, sir, and thank you very kindly.

    _Chr._ I broach the matter at once; my maxim has always been,
    _Straight to the business._

    _Gor._                Well, I don’t dislike you for that.

    _Chr._ Then am I not right in thinking you have never so much
        as met                                                       611
    Old Menedemus?

    _Gor._   No.

    _Chr._       You have not?

    _Gor._                     No.

    _Chr._                         Stay. Perhaps
    You don’t know who I mean.

    _Gor._               He’s whatdyecallem’s father.

    _Chr._ (_aside_). Whatdyecallem! well!—He is Clinia’s father; yes.

    _Gor._ What of him?

    _Chr._        Why ’tis thus. (_aside_) What was I going to say?

    _Gor._ Go on, sir.

    _Chr._       Ay, the long and the short of the matter is this.
    I know your story—let me see—do I know your name?

    _Gor._ Gorgo.

    _Chr._        Ay, to be sure. Well, Gorgo, I know your story,
    But do not charge on you the unhappy consequence
    Of a rash attachment. No. Young men will be young men,           640
    And women are—women; no blame to them. But the fact is this:
    That being on intimate terms with Clinia’s family,
    I have been entrusted by them, as one unprejudiced,
    To enquire, to judge & advise, and, if I can, to find
    A _Modus vivendi_: you, Gorgo, of course are well aware
    That your lover, whose absence has had no doubt its effect on you—
    That Clinia’s running away from home, I say, was due
    To his father’s disapproval of your attachment: that
    Gave rise to disagreement; and Clinia, balancing
    ’Twixt love & duty, fled from home, & is now abroad,
    Madly risking his life in Asia. Why do you laugh?

    _Gor._ Indeed, sir, I was not laughing.

    _Chr._                            The shock this gave his father
    Betrayed at last the affection he really bore his son:
    It measures too the mischief—shows his purpose too,
    And strong determination. He sold his house in town,
    Retired from life & pleasure—bought a farm out here,
    And works upon it from morning till night like a common drudge.
    There’s nothing to laugh at.

    _Gor._                 Excuse me, sir, I was only thinking
    Of something very ridiculous.

    _Chr._                  Attend. ’Tis you have caused
    This quarrel: you have alienated father and son.                 660
    Not only that; but it lies with you, and you alone,
    That one is risking his life in wild & barbarous wars,
    The other is taking leave of his senses as fast as he can.
    Think of this happy family life thus broken up,
    Which may be never renewed. Suppose that Clinia
    Be slain in the wars, and his father brought by grief to his grave—
    Should not this make you serious?

    _Gor._ He! he! he!

    _Chr._       Your trifling manner, miss,
    Causes me much distress.

    _Gor._             I am very nervous, sir,
    Your solemn way of talking alarms me, and when alarmed,
    I always laugh. He! he! he!

    _Chr._                Well, try and contain yourself, I pray.
    I asked you here to my house the better to judge of you.      671

    _Gor._ Ha! ha! ha!

    _Chr._ Well, well, I see you are merry. I would not check your mirth,
    And yet I cannot see what cause you have to laugh.
    Still ’tis a feast with us. I bade you join the feast:
    Be merry to-day.

    _Gor._     Ha! ha! I will, sir.

_Re-enter Pamphilus and Philolaches._

    _Chr._ (_aside_).            By luck, here’s Pamphilus—
    (_To Gor._) See, here is my son: go in: I’ll speak with you
         soon again.

    _Gor._ What time do you dine?

    _Chr._                   At five.

    _Gor._                      Is the bath made hot?

    _Chr._ (_aside_).                 My word!
    What a woman!—I’ll call my wife to attend you within.

    _Gor._ I thank you. I’ll take the bath.

    (_Going indoors._)

    _Chr._ (_aside to Pam._). O Pamphilus, Pamphilus,
    What have you done? Such a woman as this to dine in
        my house.                            [_Exit Chremes with Gorgo._

    _Pam._ By jove, Philolaches; here’s a dilemma now:
    I never thought of it.                                           682

    _Ph._               What?

    _Pam._                 Why when, for Clinia’s sake,
    We changed the ladies, I quite forgot that I had described
    Antiphila to my father. Gorgo will never do.

    _Ph._ Why not?

    _Pam._   Don’t ask. What is to be done? What shall I say?

    _Ph._ I’m thinking.

    _Pam._        My father must never know who Gorgo is.

    _Ph._ I see.

    _Pam._       What can I tell him?

    _Ph._                       I’m thinking.

    _Pam._                                    He must not know.

    _Ph._ Do let me think.

    _Pam._           What is to be done? What can I say?

    _Ph._ I have it.

    _Pam._     What is it?

    _Ph._                  If we can do it—

    _Pam._                                   What?

    _Ph._                                          Your father
    Must sooner or later come to learn the ladies were changed.      690

    _Pam._ To-morrow that will not matter when Gorgo is out of the way.
    To-day we must keep up the deception.

    _Ph._                           I see you must.

    _Pam._ How can I?

    _Ph._       What do you say if I can make your father
    Give Gorgo fifty pounds for being so much unlike
    The lady he thinks her to be?

    _Pam._                  Impossible.

    _Ph._                               Nay, ’tis not.

    _Pam._ Well, how?

    _Ph._       Why, when your father scolds, turn round upon him;
    Say you knew all along exactly what he would think,
    And brought the lady here in the hope he’d see his way
    To helping old Menedemus out of his scrape.

    _Pam._                                And then?

    _Ph._ Tell him to offer Gorgo forty or fifty pounds,
    If she will renounce her claim on Clinia.

    _Pam._                              Fifty pounds!      701
    My father give fifty pounds!

    _Ph._                  Why, don’t you wish he would?

    _Pam._ And what’s the use of wishing?

    _Ph._                           Try him.

    _Pam._                                   I think you’re mad.

    _Ph._ Try it; I’ll help you out. See here he comes.

_Re-enter Chremes._

    _Chr._                                         Good heavens!
    Pamphilus, here’s a sample of manners and good breeding.
    How could you ever have thought of bringing that woman here?

    _Pam._ You said you wanted to see her: I thought you wished her
        to come.

    _Chr._ When, sir, I blamed your friend, you said I could not judge,
    Not having seen the lady. Did I not rightly judge?

    _Ph._ (_aside_). Tell him you knew. Don’t stand there mum.

    _Chr._                                     I am quite ashamed.   710

    _Pam._ You see then what she is like?

    _Chr._                          Of course I see too well.

    _Pam._ I knew, sir, all along exactly what you would think.

    _Ph._ (_aside_). That’s right.

    _Chr._                  And yet you brought her?

    _Pam._                      You blame me, sir, too soon:
    I have put within your reach the very thing you wished.

    _Chr._ How so?

    _Pam._ I thought you wished to help Menedemus out.

    _Chr._ I do.

    _Pam._       Why then, ’tis easy.

    _Ph._ (_aside_).                Bravo!

    _Chr._                             What do you mean?

    _Pam._ Why, sir, we are all agreed the match would never do;
    Then why in the world not put a stopper on it at once?

    _Chr._ I don’t quite see your drift.

    _Pam._                         Why, forty or fifty pound
    Would settle the matter.

    _Chr._             How?

    _Pam._                  Just make the offer and see.

    _Chr._ What offer?

    _Ph._        O, I see.

    _Chr._                 I don’t see.

    _Ph._                               Capital!      721

    _Chr._ I’m very dull, no doubt.

    _Ph._                     If ’twas my place to speak....

    _Chr._ I don’t forbid you, sir.

    _Ph._                     Then, sir, I praise the scheme.

    _Chr._ What scheme?

    _Ph._         I’ll wager my life he means, this lady here
    Has plenty of other lovers; offer her fifty pounds,
    If she’ll renounce this one.

    _Chr._                 Why, stuff! suppose she did.
    She might be off to-day and on again to-morrow:
    Besides, against what Clinia’s worth in cash to her,
    A fifty pounds is nothing. (_To Pam._) If that is all you meant,
    You’re a very clever fellow.

    _Ph._                  No doubt there’s nothing in it,      730
    Unless she set her hand to paper.

    _Chr._                      Would that bind?
    How can you think it?

    _Ph._           It might not be binding perhaps on her;
    And yet ’twould do the business. If it did not shock
    Clinia’s love, as it must, ’twould kill his last pretence.
    How could he face his father armed with such a paper?
    If you will help this old Menedemus, that’s the way—

    _Chr._ I’ll tell Menedemus of this.

    _Pam._                        If you would help him, father,
    Spare him the pain. No doubt he’d give you back the money.

    _Chr._ I believe you there. I’d give six times the sum myself,
    Were I in his place.

    _Ph._          I’ve half a mind, if you are afraid,      740
    To do it myself.

    _Chr._     I should not fear to advance the money.

    _Ph._ A poor man might, but you, sir....

    _Chr._                             I do not grudge the money.

    _Ph._ A gentleman can’t consider his pocket at every turn.

    _Pam._ I’m sure you can’t.

    _Chr._ Do you think that forty pounds would do it?

    _Ph._ Forty or fifty.

    _Chr._          Thirty?

    _Pam._                  Do it handsomely.
    You say you’d give six times the sum yourself.

    _Chr._                                   I would.
    Ay, Pamphilus, fifty times.

    _Ph._                 Then don’t think twice about it.

    _Chr._ I do think twice.     (_Goes aside._)

    _Ph._              Will he do it or not?

    _Pam._                                   My lucky coin.

    _Ph._ Watch him.

    _Pam._     Heads he does, & tails he doesn’t. Heads!
    He does.

    _Ph._ And he will. Look at him.

    _Chr._ (_aside._)               Fifty pounds! A risk.      750
    No chance of profit; no: nor marketable return.
    Yet might it save a thousand. Well saved, is like well spent;
    Ay, even though ’tis saved for another: besides I am sure
    The money is safe enough. And now I have gone so far
    To help Menedemus, I can’t draw back; while if I do it
    I certainly win his esteem & thanks. ’Tis very true
    That a good turn done to a neighbour is done to oneself: one lives
    Within the circle of joy one goes to create! ’Tis wise:
    And then to have Menedemus my friend! Say forty pounds;      759
    I happen to have it handy. I’ll do it. It shan’t be said,
    Chremes is not a gentleman. No, I’ll do it.

    _Pam._                                Sir,
    Have you decided?

    _Chr._      I have.

    _Ph._               You’ll do it?

    _Chr._                            I shall.

    _Ph._                                      Bravo!
    Will you give us the money now?

    _Chr._                    You, sir!

    _Ph._                               I mean to your son;
    To arrange with the lady.

    _Chr._              How so? You seem in a vast hurry.
    I manage my own affairs. Besides the forty pounds
    Is only a guess. I hope to win the lady for less.
    Perhaps you thought that if I gave you the round sum,
    I should not enquire for the balance, and you might manage to save
    A little commission. No: I manage my own affairs.
    You can’t take Chremes in as easily as all that.      770

                                                                [_Exit._

    _Ph._ Ho! ho! ho! ho! What say you!

    _Pam._                        You are a genius.

    _Ph._                                           Well!
    You wanted a present for Gorgo, you told me. Won’t this do?

    _Pam._ Oh yes! But I am amazed.

    _Ph._                     Come, let’s go in and dress.
    I hope to bleed Menedemus to better purpose than this.
    For after all we shan’t see much of this forty pound;
    And as far as I am concerned it’s money thrown away.

                                                              [_Exeunt._

                               ACT · III

                           _Enter CHREMES._

                              _CHREMES._

    I never saw such a woman; never in all my life.
    Upon my word I am sorry for poor Menedemus now:
    What would he have done without me? What a predicament!
    Suppose his son had returned, and he with his simple heart      780
    Had given in, and had this woman to live in his house—
    Well, thanks to me he is safe. Forty pounds, I think,
    Was not so dear a bargain: and yet ’tis a tidy sum.
    As much as I should make on a small consignment of sponges:
    And that I have paid on risk—although I cannot doubt
    But that Menedemus will gladly pay me again—’tis risked.
    All for this paper, wherein the lady promises
    In consideration of this same money made over to her,
    Never again to receive the addresses of her quondam lover,
    Clinia; signed Gorgo: a genuine business.      790
    And yet no wonder she laughed; of course she thinks me a fool
    To consider her promise of weight. Ah, mistress, giggle and all,
    I’ve settled your hash. Ha! ha! ’twas clever of Pamphilus:
    The lad has some of my wits. But still I shall be uneasy,
    Until I find Menedemus is reasonable:—indeed
    I’ll lose no time. Menedemus might desire to come
    And judge for himself: I’ll press him to do so: ’twere best,
       and then
    He’ll dine with us after all, & I shall dine much better
    Myself, I must confess, when I know my money is safe.
                                         [_Exit into Menedemus’ garden._

_Enter Philolaches and Pamphilus disguised as Persians._

    _PHILOLACHES._

    Now don’t you think we are unmistakable Persians, eh?

    _PAMPHILUS._

    The essence of Central Asia: I shouldn’t fear to meet
    The shade of Themistocles.

    _Ph._                Indeed, I’ll bet my life
    Your mother would never know you. Is it not a miracle
    What these wide snowy trousers & black beards will do?

    _Pam._ I like the hat.

    _Ph._            Is it comfortable?

    _Pam._                              It fits like fun.
    Have you your tale by heart?

    _Ph._                  I shan’t go wrong in that.
    You must speak mock high-Persian; as interpreter
    I will make sense of nonsense. Be grave too.

    _Pam._                                 If I laugh,      808
    I’ve got a pretty good sleeve to laugh in. Let us go.
    But stay—which gate sh^d good true Persians enter by?
    In at the garden gate, or round the house to the front?

    _Ph._ Suppose we try the garden. Isn’t this the garden?

    _Pam._                                            Yes.

    _Ph._ I’ll lead. You know the way too well.

       [_They go to the garden gate and there meet Chremes
              re-entering._

    _Pam._                                Gods, here’s my father!

    _Chr._ (_aside_). Why, who in the name of wonder are these queer
        foreigners?

    _Ph._ LIERTOS TULVO.

    _Chr._         Sir, I do not understand you.

    _Pam._ (_to Phil, aside_). Tell him we want Menedemus, and get
        him out of the way.

    —MEFARIM BURNE SIN MENEDEMUS RYNEAS.

    _Ph._ The prince salutes my lord, and asks if here in the earth
    Are the thresholds of lord Menedemus.

    _Chr._                          Ah, you speak our tongue.
    ’Tis well. This is his house. What would you with him?

    _Pam._ (_to Phil._).                                   Heavens!
    What will you say?

    _Ph._        Go on.

    _Pam._              APROYSI THULNEAR.       821
    KEKACHYLOS RATULIAN DRICHO BRESNION OIN.

    _Ph._ My lord has bid me say we are Persians, sir, arrived
    With tidings to lord Menedemus.

    _Chr._ (_aside_).               Ah! I guessed as much.
    This should be news of Clinia: bad news too, I think.
    Their Asiatic gravity cannot quite conceal
    A strange anxiety. If he’s dead, my money is lost,
    My forty pounds all gone. I’ll learn the truth at once—
    The news, sir, that ye bring, concerns it the old man’s son?

    _Ph._ (_aside_). We’re in for it.

    _Pam._ (_aside_).    Put him off. Say we bear secret tidings.—   830
    NUSPIOL ONAYRMICO.

    _Ph._            My lord, sir, will not speak

But only with lord Menedemus.

_Chr._ (_aside_). That’s unfortunate. How shall I find it out?
Menedemus is gone from home: I’m sure he’d wish them to tell me; and
’twould be kindness’ self Gently to break the news to the poor old man.
Suppose I say that I’m Menedemus. I’m sure that scowling fellow Would
drive him out of his wits with fright. Ay, so I’ll do.— Sir, tell your
master that I’m Menedemus.

_Pam._ (_to Phil._). Ho; the deuce! What’s to be done?

_Ph._ (_to Pam._). The old liar. It’s all the same in the end. He’ll
tell Menedemus for us. Go on.

_Pam._ VEQUAMIEL 840 SAREPO MANEAS, CAMERUSYN NÁSLONON.

_Ph._ I am bid to tell thee, sir, the news is of thy son.

_Chr._ Is’t bad news?

_Ph._ Very bad.

_Chr._ Alas!

_Pam._ (_aside_). Now must my father Act for himself. He’ll not
discover me.

_Chr._ I pray,

    Tell me the worst. I am not entirely unprepared.
    Conceal nothing.

    _Pam._     BIOS EMELTO ORMIMOS
    NASEPHON FELDIDO BO CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

    _Ph._ Clinia, thy son, was slain in battle by the prince
    NASEPHON on the plains Of CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

    _Chr._ (_aside_). My money is paid for nothing: how very
        provoking! But now                                           850
    I must not forget the part I am playing. I must affect
    In some degree the sorrow which Menedemus would feel.—
    Alas, my dear son, ah, alas, my dear son, slain,
    Slain dead upon the plains of ...

    _Pam._                      CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

    _Chr._ Of CHRYSNOTAPAROYS. Alas! how was he slain?

    _Ph._ My master now will tell.

    _Pam._                   HASTORIPESON NON.

    _Ph._ They pierced him through with spears.

    _Pam._                                      BO NASLON TYVAMO.

    _Chr._ What’s that?

    _Ph._         They cut off his head.

    _Pam._                               VEM DRESCHIM PAILEKIN.

    _Ph._ They tore him limb from limb.

    _Chr._                        Alas, my son! no hope.—
    (_Aside._) I don’t know what to say.—Barbarian beasts!

    _Ph._                                             Oh, sir!
    Wreak not thy wrath on us, the unwilling messengers
    Of mournful tidings.

    _Chr._         Pray don’t take me now for a fool:
    I perfectly understand, that my obligation to you
    Is as great as if the news you brought was good. Go on.
    Pardon the hasty expression that burst from me in my woe.
    If yet there is more, don’t scruple to tell it.

    _Ph._                                     We thank thee.

    _Pam._                                                   CATROS
    USCORINO FRICOSAN NON.

    _Ph._            They flayed him alive.

    _Pam._ (_aside to Phil._). You’ve killed him twice.

    _Chr._                                        O horror!

    _Ph._ (_aside to Pam._). Give me a long one now.—

    _Pam._ PERMASON CRALTI ABRITHEOS NASOLION,
    ILNO SYNORPIN MUDI.

    _Ph._         Ere he died, thy son
    Sent thee a message, sir. There lives in the town hard by      870
    A poor old widow woman from Corinth ...

    _Chr._                            I know. Her daughter
    My son fell madly in love with, was even on the point to marry.
    ’Twould never have done: she was not at all the sort of woman.
    Tell me, sirs, when you came.

    _Ph._                   Our ship arrived this morning;
    And since we sail to-night, ’twill save thee needless trouble
    To make thy gift to the prince my master here at once,
    According to Persian custom.

    _Chr._                 Ask you for money, sir?

    _Ph._ That is the Persian custom.

    _Chr._ (_aside_).                 Most annoying this!—
    Sir, I will send it you.

    _Ph._              We would not trouble thee:
    We’ll wait, sir, while thou fetchest it.

    _Chr._ (_aside_).                        What in the world to do?
    These Persians have an uncommon sharp eye to the main chance:      881
    I’ll try one piece of gold if ’twill content him.—Sir,
    Give this then to your master.

    _Ph._                    It will not satisfy him.
    For he is a potentate: but I will obey thee, sir.

    _Pam._ TARTYS CHRIBOS!      (_Puts hand on sword._)

    _Ph._            See, sir, he doth not like it.

    _Chr._                                          Well,
    I am but a poor man, but what is right I’ll do.
    Look! here are four more pieces, and that is all I have.
    And pray consider, sirs, the mournful news you bring
    Cannot be held of value, as joyful tidings might.         (_Gives._)

    (_Aside._) I hope this may content them: ’tis not much.
        Menedemus                                                    890
    Will after all be spared the expense of a funeral.

    _Pam._ JOPISCO MORCA.

    _Ph._           Sir, he is still but ill contented.

    _Chr._ Then wait, sirs. I’ll go in and fetch you what I may.

    _Ph._ We will await thee here.

    _Chr._ (_aside_). I’ll go and find Menedemus.               [_Exit._

    _Ph._ Now let’s be off at once.

    _Pam._                    What sport! O gods! five pounds!
    He never made me so handsome a present in all my life.
    I’ve tried all kinds of dodges to screw coin out of him,
    But I never could: and you’ve come round him twice to-day.
    I’ll arrange with you for some more adventures of this sort.

    _Ph._                                                  Stay,      899
    Half this is mine.

    _Pam._       And welcome.

_Enter Menedemus at back unperceived: he watches them._

    _Ph._                     What made your governor
    Tell all those lies?

    _Pam._         Just like him.

    _Ph._                         Why should he pretend
    To be Menedemus?

    _Pam._     Merely to meddle: besides no doubt
    He was anxious about the money we cheated him of this morning;
    He wishes now he was off his bargain with Gorgo.

    _Ph._                                      Ay.
    He gave you a blessing this morning.

    _Pam._                         May the gods bless him.
    I love him at this moment.

    _Ph._                Come, we must be gone.

    _Pam._ Hercules! there is old Menedemus himself.
    Make haste!
    I hope he has not overheard us.

    _Ph._                     March by in good style.

    _Pam._ CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

    _Ph._             BO CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

    _MENEDEMUS._

    _Chrysnotaparoys_! Whatever jargon is this?      910
    Queer-looking fellows too to be prowling about my house,
    And talking of me. Some maskers my neighbour Chremes hires
    To honour the Feast of Bacchus. A stupid, vulgar fashion,
    This orientalising, in great vogue too, and still
    Gains ground, I fear; and this is one of the gaudy-days.
    ’Tis well I did not accept his invitation to dine.
    Mummery and tomfoolery! Alas, I have been all day
    More nervous and anxious than ever. I even thought this morning
    I heard my poor son’s voice: so certain I was that I ran
    To the end of the garden and looked.—Surely I was
        either born                                                  920
    With a mind most singularly sensible of grief, or else
    The saying is not true that time is sorrow’s cure.
    My sorrow rather increases upon me every day,
    And the longer he is away the more do I yearn for him,
    And miss him.

_Re-enter Chremes from Menedemus’ house._

    _Chr._ (_aside_). Why here he is, just when I’d given him up.—
    O Menedemus!

    _Men._       What is the matter?

    _Chr._                     Alas, Menedemus!

    _Men._ You frighten me, Chremes.

    _Chr._                     I’ve sought you everywhere.

    _Men._ I had to go in the town. Is anything wrong?

    _Chr._                                       I came
    To tell you how I had done you a service; light of heart.
    Because I had done you a service, knew you must approve,      930
    And did not doubt that you would repay me a little sum
    That I ventured on your behalf.

    _Men._                    Certainly, Chremes; well?

    _Chr._ I knew you would, but still I came to explain at once.
    I sought for you in your garden in vain; and coming out,
    Intending to go to your house, just as I opened the gate,
    Just here, I met two foreigners strangely dressed.

    _Men._                                       In white?

    _Chr._ You saw them?

    _Men._         A moment ago. Who are they?

    _Chr._                                     The elder one
    Addressed me in Persian.

    _Men._             In Persian, did he? What did he say?

    _Chr._ I’ll tell you. When they saw me at your gate, coming out,
    They thought most naturally that I was you.

    _Men._                                I see.      940

    _Chr._ I did not undeceive them.

    _Men._                          They thought that you were me?

    _Chr._ They did.

    _Men._ I have little doubt but that they are revellers,
    Who knowing what you, Chremes, would call my folly, came
    To play some practical joke. They said they were Persians?

    _Chr._                                               Yes.

    _Men._ With news of Clinia?

    _Chr._                Yes.

    _Men._                     This sort of impertinence
    Provokes me, Chremes; ’tis want of respect. Suppose I am
    Somewhat old-fashioned, yet to be idly trifled with,
    In a matter in which I feel so deeply ...

    _Chr._                               Pray heaven you are right.
    I did suspect them myself at first: but when they spoke ...

    _Men._ What did they say?

    _Chr._              I dare not tell you.

    _Men._                                   You need not fear.      950

    _Chr._ They said your son was dead. They saw him killed by a prince,
    In a battle at Chrysno ... Chrysno ...

    _Men._                           Chrysnotaparoys?

    _Chr._ Ha! is it a famous place?

    _Men._                     I never heard of it, Chremes.

    _Chr._ Then how did you know?

    _Men._                  They were talking together as I came in.

    _Chr._ That should convince you, and then the dying message he sent.

    _Men._ What’s that?

    _Chr._        The tale you know. The old Corinthian widow,
    Whose daughter he was in love with ...

    _Men._                           Did they say, may I ask,
    All this in Persian?

    _Chr._         One did: yes—but I confess,
    That in spite of a few expressions I was able to understand,      959
    I had to trust very much to the one that interpreted.

    _Men._ But him I should understand?

    _Chr._                        I don’t say but what you might.

    _Men._ It’s forty years since I was in Persia: but this I know,
    That is not a Persian dress, and I think I ought to remember
    At least the sound of the language. If you could find these men
    And send them to me ...

    _Chr._            I will. They promised to wait for me.
    They’re not far off: I’ll fetch them at once.

    _Men._                                  Stay! ere you go—
    I wanted to tell you, Chremes, I have quite made up my mind
    Concerning the girl: my duty is plain enough.

    _Chr._                                  What is it?

    _Men._ To adopt her: for if my son returns, to find her here      969
    Under my care, protected & loved as I shall love her,
    Will be a bond between us to make him forget the past,
    My harshness and all; while should he be killed or die abroad,—
    Which God forbid—or never return, I have then no heir,
    And the only consolation remaining to me in the world
    Is the loving her, whom he would have made my daughter, and whom
    I shall love like him.

    _Chr._           You won’t.

    _Men._                      Why not?

    _Chr._                               I shall convince you
    That you will do nothing of the sort.

    _Men._                          Why not?

    _Chr._                                   You wouldn’t ask,
    If you only knew what a creature she is.

    _Men._                             You know her?

    _Chr._                                           Ay.

    _Men._ But how? You never told me.

    _Chr._         She is spending the day at my house.
    ’Twas this I was coming to tell you about, but the
        other matter                                                 980
    Had driven it out of my head. I thought to discover for you
    (Seeing you did not know) what kind of person she was;
    That I might judge and tell you, whether you most were wrong
    In being at first so harsh to your son, or now to yourself.
    So I asked her to spend the day at my house. It has ended in this,
    That when I saw what kind of woman she really was,
    I offered her forty pounds if she would renounce your son.
    Believe me, she jumped at the bargain; so then, to prevent mistake,
    I made her sign a paper to that effect. I hold it.
    It cost me forty pounds; and that’s the money I said,
    That I had advanced for you.      991

    _Men._                 ’Twas very kind of you, Chremes.
    You see I am shocked.

    _Chr._          Nay, don’t give way.

    _Men._                               You have dashed my hope.
    I was not prepared for this. Freeborn I knew she was not;
    But this I never suspected.

    _Chr._                Come to my house and see.
    I wish you to judge for yourself.

    _Men._                      She is there?

    _Chr._                                    She is there, do you ask?
    Ay, to my cost she is there. No sooner she comes to the door,
    Than all is to be topsy-turvy. She calls me ‘old man!’
    Asks if the bath is ready, and presently calls for wine.
    She’ll take a ‘whetting brusher,’ she says. The quantity
    She wasted in merely tasting was more than most men drink.      1000
    She kept me an hour on my legs before she was pleased, and then
    Drank like a fish, & laughed at nothing & everything.
    Had it not been for you, Menedemus, I promise you
    I could not have stood it.

    _Men._               I feel extremely obliged to you,
    And sorry for this. You have been most friendly in all you have done.
    I cannot doubt you are right. But still whatever she is,
    I’d like to see her once. I can’t dine with you;—arrange
    To send her across to me. Explain to her who I am;
    And let me judge for myself if it is so impossible
    To carry out my former intention as you believe.

    _Chr._ By all means. I shall be glad enough to be rid of her.      1011
    I go at once.

    _Men._        And find those Persians, whoever they are.

    _Chr._ Indeed I must. For either I was grossly deceived
    In a manner I cannot believe—I gave them money too—
    Or else—

    _Men._     Well, lose no time, I pray: I am less at ease
    In the matter now, than when you told me first.

    _Chr._                                    Indeed
    I fear you have cause: I’ll go at once. Farewell.

                                                                [_Exit._

    _Men._                                      Farewell.
    A silly hoax no doubt. I wish ’twere half as likely
    That Chremes was wrong about the girl. ’Tis very strange        1019
    That he should suddenly take such an active interest
    In my affairs. I think he’s a little meddlesome,
    With all his kindness and thought. But that’s the way
        of the world.                                           [_Exit._

_Re-enter Chremes and Pamphilus._

    _Chr._ See Gorgo at once, I say, and get it back if you can.

    _Pam._ Why, father?

    _Chr._        I’ll tell you. Clinia your friend is dead.

    _Pam._ Impossible.

    _Chr._       No. I have seen two Persians just arrived,
    Who say he was slain in battle.

    _Pam._                    Does old Menedemus know?

    _Chr._ He does.

    _Pam._    And how does he take it?

    _Chr._                             Why? How should he take it?

    _Pam._ How should I know? The cross old hunks.

    _Chr._                                   Stop! Pamphilus.
    You wrong him; he’s distracted: and now in consequence,      1029
    He has made up his mind to adopt that woman.

    _Pam._                                 Gorgo?

    _Chr._                                        Yes.
    How can you laugh?

    _Pam._       Well, if he adopts her, what’s the use
    Of asking her for the money now? Menedemus will pay.

    _Chr._ You do, please, as I say. Of course it’s impossible
    To adopt her: I intimated to him as much, but still
    He wants to judge for himself. I promised to send her tó him.
    As soon as the ladies return from the bath explain this tó her.
    And take her across; at least if I’m not back from town.

    _Pam._ You go to the town?

    _Chr._               I have promised to bring these Persians back;
    We wish to establish the news they brought. They half engaged      1039
    To await me here, but it seems they are gone.

    _Pam._                                  Can I go fór you?

    _Chr._ Ay, ay. Yet no. (_aside_) Nay, I shall have to explain to them
    That I am not Menedemus,—I fear I must go myself.
    I think I shall not be long. You do as I told you, please;
    And tell your mother where I am gone.

    _Pam._                          I hope you’ll find them.

    _Chr._ I shan’t come back without ’em.                         [_Exit._

    _Pam._ (_aside_).                      Good-bye then, dad, for ever!

                               ACT · IV

                        _PAMPHILUS and CLINIA._

                             _PAMPHILUS._

    ’TIS simply ruin, Clinia; pray come back at once.
    Do wait till after dinner.

    _CLINIA._

                               I couldn’t.

    _Pam._                           The governor
    Will smoke it all if you go: ’twill break our party up.

    _Clin._ My father thinks I am killed.

    _Pam._                          What matter so you’re not?

    _Clin._ He’ll be so grieved. Indeed I can’t consider
        your party.                                                 1050

    _Pam._ You’re most ungrateful.

    _Clin._                  Nay indeed, good Pamphilus,
    I am much obliged for all your kindness; I say so again.
    But this I told you expressly I did not wish.

    _Pam._                                  You’ve got
    More than you ever hoped. Antiphila here: your father
    Brought nicely round: and all through my good management.
    And now you’ll throw me over for want of a little patience.

    _Clin._ To be free with you, I do not like being half
        drawn in, as I am,
    To tricking your father of fifty pounds. Besides I am here
    Under a false name, as his guest. Antiphila too
    Is passing off for somebody else, I know not who;
    While you and Philolaches have deceived your father and mine,      1061
    In a way that I cannot be party to.

    _Pam._                        Wait. Here comes my father.
    I’ll show you now what kind of a temper I risk for you.

_Enter Chremes from town._

    _CHREMES._

      Wheu! back at last. Wheu, wheu! my word! as hot as hot!
    Wheu! bah! and all this worry and flurry for nothing: wheu!
    I am covered and choked with dust. I wish most heartily
    These Persians had found their grave at Chrysnotaparoys.
    I vow that the famous army of Darius never gave
    Such trouble to brave Miltiades at Marathon,
    As these two rascally slinkers have given to me. Wheu! Wheu!    1070

    _Pam._ (_advancing_). Have you not found them, father?

    _Chr._                    If I have found them? No.
    I went to the port; the ship I found there sure enough,
    But I could not hear of them. A single passenger,
    They said, had landed; and he was a Greek. I enquired besides
    At all the houses along the road: there was not a man,
    Who had even so much as seen them.

    _Sostrata_ (_within_).             Chremes! Chremes!

    _Chr._                                         Ah!

_Enter Sostrata from Chremes’ house._

    _SOSTRATA._

    O husband! husband!

    _Chr._        O wife! wife!

    _Sost._                 She is found, she is found!

    _Chr._ Who’s found?

    _Sost._       Our daughter, our long-lost daughter
        is found.

    _Chr._             What now?

    _Sost._ Look! this is the necklace, this the ring.

    _Chr._                                       Why, what d’ye mean?

    _Sost._ See, husband, if you remember them; they are the
        very same                                                   1080
    Our daughter Antiphila wore, the day she was stolen.

    _Chr._                                         Hey!
    What’s this?

    _Sost._      I knew them at once.

    _Chr._                      Then tell me at once, whén,
    How, and where did you find them?

    _Sost._                     The girl that Gorgo brought
    Wore them. I knew them at once: and when I heard her name....

    _Chr._ Antiphila?

    _Sost._     Yes, Antiphila.

    _Chr._                      Quite so. You heard the name;
    That made you think this girl our daughter: I’ll wager my life
    She’s no such thing. ’Tis unsupposable.

    _Sost._                           Dearest husband,
    I always knew we should find her. I’ve said so a thousand times.

    _Chr._ Oh yes! you always knew beforehand of everything      1089
    After it happened, wife: there’s nothing could occur
    But you would tell me you told me before. And yet this time
    Do not be wise too soon.

    _Sost._            Why, here’s the ring itself,
    The necklace and the name.

    _Chr._               The name is a common name,
    And rings and necklaces too are made so much alike,
    They’re nothing to go by.

    _Sost._             Then I have spoken to her, Chremes,
    And she is so like her:—

    _Chr._              Hey! here’s fine proof indeed;
    Just think for once now what you have said. You recognize
    In a grown-up lady, you say, the baby you have never seen
    Since she was three! Why, even supposing she was not changed
    In all these fifteen years, could you remember her
    So long?

    _Sost._  But she is my daughter: that makes the difference.      1101

    _Chr._ Why, that’s the very question. Is she? And if she was,
    What difference could it make? But if you have spoken with her,
    Where does she say she comes from?

    _Sost._                      She says she lives in the town
    With an old Corinthian widow ...

    _Chr._                     I know: the mother of Gorgo.
    They live together, do they? Then just send Gorgo here.

    _Sost._ Indeed she has nothing to do with Gorgo.

    _Chr._                                     According to that
    There are two Corinthian widows.

    _Sost._                    Two?

    _Chr._                          Why not? I suppose
    There must be two, unless it’s the same.

    _Sost._                            But who is the other?

    _Chr._ There isn’t another at all. Bring Gorgo here at once.    1110
    She’ll know enough of the facts to set this matter at rest.

    _Sost._ Why, Chremes ...

    _Chr._             I say, fetch Gorgo.

    _Sost._                                I assure you, Chremes dear ...

    _Chr._ Do go and fetch her, wife.

    _Sost._                     Well, as you will....

    _Chr._                                            Of course.
    Dó I ever express an opinion, issue a command,
    Without an ample reason? (_Exit Sostrata._)
                             ’Twould be strange!—(_To Pam._) Now, sir,
    Had you not heard of this?

    _Pam._               No, father.

    _Chr._                           And there you stand,
    As dull as a fish! Why, what will you think, if this be true,
    Of finding a sister?

    _Pam._         Sir, you wished me a happy day:
    As nothing was more unlooked for, nothing is happier
    In the world than this.

    _Chr._            Yet there’s your friend, a perfect stranger.
    Is far more moved than you. You go to the play, I know:         1121
    Fifty per cent. of all our Attic comedies
    Have this same plot, a daughter stolen in early years,
    Lost sight of, despaired of, almost forgotten, and then at last,
    When least expected—although there’s scarce a soul in the house
    That does not know or guess it beforehand—she reappears.
    Then are not all eyes wet? Why, that’s the poetic art,
    Which makes emotion, and sells it to fools at market price.
    You have pitied the child, have pictured the thousand possible ills
    She may have encountered, hardships of body and mind,
        neglect,                                                    1130
    The injuries and privations of slavery, wrongs and blows;
    The lack of all that care, to which, in a mother’s love,
    The meanest birth is titled, without which even brutes
    Perish for lack of instinct: the tenderness of sex
    You have thought of; her innocence, the snares of a merciless world
    For the unprotected, and then this picture you contrast
    With the comfortable, gentéel hóme the scene presents.
    You feel for the parents then—ay, tho’ some ridicule
    Be fastened upon them; ’tis by such touches of flesh and blood
    The life comes home to your heart, and while you are made
        to smile,                                                   1140
    You weep. You have paid for the tear, or if your false shame
    Forbids you to shew your feeling, you’ve bought a lump in the throat.
    You praise the play, because ’tis a tender situation.
    Enough to stir the blood of a crocodile like yourself:
    I catch you weeping—slap! all’s changed. ’Tis not a play:
    The stage is yóur hóme, the actors your father and mother,
    Your own sister is found, & where’s your feeling now?
    I think your heart is made of matting! Your friend, I say,
    Is far more moved: I see the tears stand in his eyes.

    _Clin._ ’Tis joy. I wish you joy, sir. I wish your
        daughter joy.                                               1150
    And, may I say it, your happiness brings happiness to me.

    _Chr._ I thank you, Clitipho; but now we go too fast:
    Because I don’t at all suppose this is my daughter.
    Ho! Gorgo! where’s Gorgo? (_Goes to door._)

    _Clin._ (_to Pam._).      O Pamphilus, I am in heaven:
    For if Antiphila really be your sister, then
    My father cannot oppose our marriage.

    _Pam._                          No more will mine.
    ’Twill make him as proud as a peacock.

    _Clin._                          Sweetest Antiphila.

    _Pam._ Quite so: but what in the world do you think will happen to me,
    When he finds out?

    _Clin._      Oh, I have attained the life of the gods!

    _Pam._ Go on. You will not tell me now I have done too much?      1160

    _Clin._ Oh no: I forgive it all.

    _Pam._                     Forgive it?

    _Clin._                                I thank you for it.

    _Pam._ I shall need more than thanks.

    _Clin._                         O Pamphilus, anything.
    What can I give you?

    _Pam._         Listen. If things go well with you,
    They’re not so smart with me: and if you wish to help me,
    I only see one hope.

    _Clin._        What’s that?

    _Pam._                      That you should win
    Your father to plead for me: after all I have done for him,
    I think he might: and if you ask him, I am sure he will.
    Concealment is out of the question: go to him now at once,
    And tell him all.

    _Clin._     Indeed I was going; but may I not see
    Antiphila first?

    _Pam._     No, no, there’s not a moment to lose.
    The governor will be back, and if he finds you out,
    You’ll have to go to your father with him, and what a tale      1172
    He’ll tell it’s easy to guess.

    _Clin._                  I would not consent to that.
    I’ll go at once.

    _Pam._     Go quickly, before Gorgo comes.
    Quick! Quick!                                        [_Exit Clinia._
                  And just in time. I wonder what she will say.

    _Chr._ (_at the door to Gorgo_). I want you a moment, Gorgo.

_Enter Gorgo with Sostrata._

                                          Prithee, be so good
    As just to answer my questions. This girl Antiphila
    Who came with you, is your maid? Don’t look at my son and laugh.
    I am serious. Is this girl your servant?

    _GORGO._
                                             No.

    _Chr._                                 She is not?
    She lives with you?

    _Gor._          No.

    _Chr._ I thought you lived with the widow woman,
    Who came from Corinth. Pray be sober. I want to know.           1181
    You told me you did.

    _Gor._         Ay, sir.

    _Chr._                  And yet Antiphila
    Does not live with you?

    _Gor._            No, sir.

    _Chr._                     When did you see her first?

    _Gor._ This morning.

    _Chr._         Indeed. And can you tell me nothing about her?

    _Gor._ Nothing whatever.

    _Chr._             I thank you. I’ve nothing to ask you then.

    _Gor._ It’s thank you for nothing, sir! No further commands
        at present?

    _Chr._ Peace, prithee, peace!
    (_To Sostrata._) Now, wife, you see I was right for once.
    Gorgo knows nothing about her.

    _Sost._                  I told you she didn’t, Chremes.

    _Chr._ But then you said she lived with the widow. You see
        she doesn’t,                                                1189
    And Gorgo does.

    _Sost._   I can’t believe it. Antiphila told me
    The widow’s name; and then the very clothes she wore
    The day she was stolen, she has laid by.

    _Chr._                             Eh! said she so?
    Then you should have sent for the woman, told her to bring the clothes.

    _Sost._ So, Chremes, I did, but the poor old lady’s too ill to come:
    But the clothes were sent. I have seen them.

    _Chr._                       And are they the same?

    _Sost._                                     They are.

    _Chr._ Why then did you not spare me all this trouble, wife?
    Why did you not tell me before of the clothes?

    _Sost._                                  You would not hear!

    _Chr._ Not hear! when all the time I was asking you this and that.
    Ye gods! have ye never made one reasonable woman?
    Don’t you see that the clothes are the chiefest
        matter of all?                                              1200
    Why, they’re a proof.

    _Sost._         Then do you believe?

    _Chr._                               Ay, wife, come in.
    I think we have found our daughter.

    _Gor._ Oho! ho! ho!                         [_Exeunt Sost. and Chr._
                        O he does make me laugh.
    And when he finds all out, the silly old man, at last,
    How I shall love to see him!

    _Pam._                 Indeed you must not stay.

    _Gor._ Why not?

    _Pam._    Why, don’t you see how mad he’ll be?

    _Gor._                                         He will.

    _Pam._ He’ll want that forty pounds.

    _Gor._                         He may want.

    _Pam._                                      I am afraid
    You cannot keep it.

    _Gor._        I not keep it? What! d’ye think
    I’d give it him back?

    _Pam._          I think you had better make sure of it.
    Take my advice and go.

    _Gor._           I am sorry to go, and yet
    What should I stay for now? There’ll be no dinner.

    _Pam._                                       No,                1210
    That there won’t.

    _Gor._      Well, make my excuses, & give your father
    My kind congratulations.

    _Pam._             Go!

    _Gor._                 With the same to you.
    Antiphila’s quite a dove.

    _Pam._              Do go!

    _Gor._                           Good-bye, my lad.
    It’s wisest to go, I see: but if the old man should ask
    Where I am gone to ...

    _Pam._           Well?

    _Gor._                 Why, tell him I’m gone to spend
    His forty pounds in the town. Ta ta!                        [_Exit._

    _Pam._                         I think that woman
    Has done for me. Thank the gods she’s gone, and just in time;
    Here somebody comes from the house.

_Enter Philolaches from Chremes’ house._

    _PHILOLACHES._

                                        Look out, Pamphilus!
    Your father is coming after you.

    _Pam._                     He has found us out of course?

    _Ph._ He has guessed who Gorgo is; but still is quite in
       the dark.                                                    1220
    He still imagines Clinia slain and torn to bits
    On the plains of what d’ye call it.—

    _Pam._                          What is best to do?

    _Ph._ Nothing. Let him rave it out. The quicker he heats,
    The quicker he’ll cool.

    _Pam._            But if you had ever seen him angry ...

    _Ph._ Don’t be afraid.

    _Pam._           I am.

    _Ph._                  Throw all the blame on me.

    _Pam._ I hear him.

 _Re-enter Chremes, speaking as he comes out to Sostrata within._

    _Chr._       It’s high time, wife, you stopped this precious noise,
    Deafening the gods with singing all your confounded praises
    For finding your daughter. You judge them by yourself perhaps,
    And think they can’t understand a simple thing, unless
    It’s told them a hundred times.
    (_To Pam._)                     Now, sir, ’tis you I want.      1230
    Come here.

    _Pam._     What, father?

    _Chr._             _What, father?_ As innocent
    As milk, no doubt. You think it’s possible I do not know?
    I’ll tell you what: to-day I have found a daughter, sir,
    And lost a son. Begone and take your Gorgo with you:
    For I’ll not own you longer. Be off! Go where you will:
    But see you ne’er set foot beneath my roof again.

    _Pam._ Father, what do you mean? What have I done?

    _Chr._                                       You dare
    Ask! If I tell you now that you are a reprobate,
    An idle, dissipated, licentious, spendthrift fellow:—
    Is that enough?

    _Pam._    O father!

    _Chr._              Or if I add the rest,                       1240
    A mean, deceitful, undutiful, snivelling, sneaking cheat;
    A liar.

    _Pam._ Oh, I am not.

    _Chr._         Well, you deny it, do you?
    I’ll ask you is this true or not. You found that I,
    With a view to help our neighbour, wished to see the girl
    That got his son into trouble. You undertook to bring her.
    I trusted you wholly, could not expect to be played on bý you;
    You knew her, and I did not, had never heard her name;
    And this you knew, and took occasion to introduce
    A different person altogether, a friend of your own,
    A woman whose very presence was an insult; and not content      1250
    With abusing my confidence & kindness, my sheer disgust
    You turned to your own account, and so, on a mock pretence
    Of doing my neighbour a wonderful service, made me pay
    I don’t know what. You blinded me, and robbed me, and all the while
    ’Twas yóur víle místress I was entertaining for you,
    And paying out of my pocket for nothing. Is that not true?
    Was it not enough to have this creature sit down to dine
    With your mother and me? ay, and with your sister? and as for her,
    Yóu have been the means of aspersing her character,
    The day when she is restored to the family. Yes, ’tis she       1260
    Is the lady in question, and I have been running here and there
    To diffame my own daughter to my neighbour, and thanks to you
    Have been a pretty fool! And if his son returns,—
    For now I am so confused that whether he’s living or dead
    I have not a notion,—but if, I say, he should return,
    And ask Antiphila’s hand, would then Menedemus believe
    That I did not tell him the truth before I knew any cause
    To wish for one thing more than another? I say be off!
    Ask me what you’ve done? A treasure of innocence
    You are! Begone! I’ll never see you again. Begone!

    _Ph._ For patience’ sake, one word from me, sir! Pamphilus      1271
    Was not so much in fault; I am the one to blame:
    He truly intended to introduce Antiphila;
    And I was sent to fetch her: but when it appeared her friends
    Would not consent to allow that you should interfere
    Between Menedemus and her, then, on the spur of the moment,
    The ladies were changed, & that at my suggestion, sir.

    _Chr._ I interfere, you say? ’Tis you that interfere,
    I think. Pray hold your tongue; or if you wish to advise,
    Advise your friend again: he needs it more than I;
    Maybe he’ll thank you for it. I neither ask nor want it.        1281

_Re-enter Sostrata._

    (_To Pam._) To you, sir, I have no more to add. Begone at once!
    ’Twill spare your sister pain, if she sh^d never know you;
    Not that there’s aught to lose. Now, if there is anything
    You want in the house, go in at once and fetch it. Look,
    I’ll give you half an hour.

    _Sost._               Chremes, what are you saying?

    _Chr._ I have only said, wife, what I told you; and you may now
    Bid your dear Pamphilus good-bye.

    _Sost._                     How cruel you are!
    Do you wish to kill your son? You’ll certainly be his death,    1289
    Unless you mind. I wonder how anything so wicked
    Could have come into your head.

    _Chr._                    Oh, will you never learn
    To keep your place, woman? Was there ever a thing
    Which I ever proposed or did in my whole life, in which
    You did not go against me? But sh^d I ask you now
    What wrong I am doing, or why I do the thing I do,
    You would not know: you could not tell me anything
    Of the matter in which so confidently you oppose me. Fool!

    _Sost._ I do not know?

    _Chr._           Well, well, you do know. Anything
    Rather than have it all over again.

    _Sost._                       How iniquitous of you,
    To prevent my speaking in such a matter!

    _Chr._                             I don’t prevent you.         1300
    Go on! Talk yourself hoarse.                                [_Exit._

    _Pam._                 Mother, what shall I do?

    _Sost._ What did he say?

    _Pam._             He says he disowns me.

    _Sost._                                   Don’t give way.
    He is angry now: I know he’ll soon be kind again.

    _Ph._ Quite so, madam; a father’s threats are nothing to fear.

    _Pam._ I am glad you think so.

    _Ph._                    Don’t be angry with me, Pam!
    I’ve got you into a mess, but if you’ll trust to me,
    I’ll get you out.

    _Sost._     How kind of you, Mr. Philogelos!

    _Ph_. Take my advice and hide. Pretend you have run away.
    I’ll say you’ve sailed to the Persian wars in Clinia’s ship.
    And when your father finds that Clinia is safe, and he
    Demands Antiphila’s hand, the rest will be all forgotten.       1311

    _Sost._ Is Antiphila to marry Clinia?

    _Ph._                           Yes, ma’am.

    _Sost._                                     Menedemus’ son,
    That ran away?

    _Ph._    Yes, ma’am.

    _Sost._              Why, Chremes said he was killed.

    _Ph._ It’s all a mistake; you’ve spoken to him to-day yourself:
    He is Clitipho.

    _Sost._   O dear! I must tell Chremes this.
    How glad I am!

    _Ph._    Stay, madam, stay; I pray you won’t.
    Your husband will find that out quite soon enough for us.
    Far better see Menedemus, if he will help us out.

    _Sost._ What could he do?

    _Ph._               He’ll stand our friend. How could he wish
    To see Antiphila’s brother driven disgraced from home?          1320

    _Sost._ Go, Pamphilus, go at once!

    _Pam._                       Clinia is there; I will.

    _Sost._ And can I then tell Chremes?

    _Ph._                          Madam, consider this:
    He won’t believe you, and after will only be angry with you
    For knowing it first, and being in the right when he was wrong.

    _Sost._ ’Tis all so strange, that really and truly I don’t suppose
    That any one would believe it. It may be best to wait.
    But you should waste no time, Pamphilus; go at once.

    _Pam._ I go, but do not tell him where I am gone.

    _Sost._                                     No, son.    [_Exit Pam._
    I’ll do my best to win him. (_To Ph._) I thank you, sir, very kindly.

    _Ph._ I wish you good success.                     [_Exit Sostrata._
                                   A sensible body. I lean          1330
    On her and old Menedemus. Not that I doubt myself;
    I know a stroke to play: is’t not the feast of Bacchus?
    I will invoke the god; his genius will confound
    This dull, contrary Chremes. What’s his humour worth
    To gods or men, that I should bow to it? Nay, & since
    Whate’er the humour be, ’tis the persistency
    That carries it, to hell with dumps! ’Twere póor mérriment
    That Chremes’ frown could dash. Why, if there be a choice       1338
    ’Twixt Chremes pleased and Chremes angry, of the two
    This latter, angry Chremes is the more ridiculous.

ACT · V

_MENEDEMUS and CLINIA._

    _MENEDEMUS._

    You have made me, my dear Clinia, the very happiest of fathers,
    By this return to your senses; indeed I ran great risk
    Of taking leave of my own: but since I have you back,
    ’Tis nothing but happiness: and gladly I now consent
    To the match, which hitherto in your own interest
    I have only opposed because I would not have you marry
    A woman not freeborn. To be sure I c^d have wished
    ’Twas somebody else’s daughter than Chremes’. After all
    It might be worse. But are you sure you hold to it still,
    And wish to marry her?

    _CLINIA._

                           I, father? How can you ask?              1350

    _Men._ You are young to marry; but, mind, I should not make your age
    An objection, provided I thought you knew what marriage is.
    But do you, can you know? You have only experience
    Of childhood, and some few years of youthful liberty:
    What can thát teach? Your tie to me, your friendships,—
    Some intimate friendships too: but nothing here nor there
    Comparable to the bond of marriage. Suppose I say
    ’Tis, next to existence, the most familiar thing in
        the world:—                                                 1358
    Then judge how jealous pride & self-regard should be,
    Ere they admit this master circumstance to rule,
    As rule it must. You know the story Plato tells
    Of Er, the Armenian soldier, & what he saw in death,
    Permitted to stand between the gates of heaven and hell;
    How there he saw the souls, who, ere they came on earth,
    Were choosing each their lives in turn—and, what was strange,
    How wantonly and without deliberation they chose,
    Making a rush at what they fancied first: and this,
    So Plato said, explained man’s discontent on earth,
    His misery being his fault. All w^h, be it fable or no,
    Clinia, has this much truth; that you may see the like
    Without going down to the grave, nor any revelation
    Of nature’s secrecies—but every day on earth,                   1372
    In men that wive. With them the stake is no less great;
    Their carelessness in choice, their after-discontent
    Match each in kind. Now I would play the interpreter
    To you, as some celestial did to Er: I warn you,
    Take not this step in haste. You choose a second being:
    The lives are strewn before you: is this the best to take?

    _Clin._ O if you knew Antiphila, father, you would not ask.

    _Men._ Very well. I see your choice is made. I only wish        1380
    She did not drink.

    _Clin._      O father! you know—

    _Men._                            Yes, yes. I know.
    What a number of sad mistakes Chremes has made to-day!
    He has not discovered yet who the two Persians were,
    Who came to frighten me.

    _Clin._            I hope I need not tell you, father,
    I never wished that done. I feared you might be grieved:
    But Chremes being so sure you never would forgive me ...

    _Men._ Was he?

    _Clin._        He said you told him.

    _Men._                         Did he? He has been to blame.
    There’s much he will have to explain to me, which he will not wish
    Another to hear. Retire to the garden, while I go
    And smooth things over with him, and ask his daughter’s hand.   1390

    _Clin._ How long?

    _Men._      Well, if I send, be ready at once to come:
    And see that Pamphilus too is handy: explain to him,
    That if I can be happy enough to make his peace with his father,
    His presence will then be needed.

    _Clin._                     I hope it will not be long.     [_Exit._

    _Men._ I am not very wise myself or clever, that I know:
    And I may have behaved in a manner open to criticism,
    I may have even provoked derision, that may be;
    I think I have. But this same would-be helper of mine,
    My counsellor and guide, Chremes, is very far beyond me.        1399
    I never did anything half so foolish in all my life
    As to trust my secrets to him. In time now; here he comes.

_Enter Chremes._

    _CHREMES._

      Ah, my good Menedemus, now I have news indeed.

    _Men._ I know it, Chremes, and give you my hearty congratulations.
    ’Tis a happy day for us both: for you have found a daughter,
    And I ...

    _Chr._    You know it already? Who told you?

    _Men._                                 My son.

    _Chr._                                         Your son!

    _Men._ Clinia. Yes. He is in my house. I was coming across
    To ask you to join your treasure so newly found with mine:
    And to give your daughter to-day to my son in marriage.

    _Chr._                                            Well!
    I cannot understand it. Where did he come from? When?

    _Men._ Why, that’s the strangest of all: he landed only
        this morning,                                               1410
    Met your son in the town; & has been in yóur house
    Ever since.

    _Chr._      My house?

    _Men._          It seems your son is a friend of his:
    He introduced him, but under another name, because
    He did not wish to be known.

    _Chr._                 Not Clitipho?

    _Men._                               Ay, ’twas that.

    _Chr._ There then! O how I have been deceived! And you were right
    About the Persians too: they were a make-believe.

    _Men._ So I guessed all along, Chremes.

    _Chr._                            But who then were they?

    _Men._ Forgive me, my good friend, I ask you once for all,
    The annoyance my family affairs have been to you to-day.        1419
    Your kindness has brought you only vexation.

    _Chr._                                 O, I am sure
    You are welcome enough to any service that I can render.

    _Men._ Then pray oblige me in this, and overlook the folly
    Of the actors in thís fárce. The intention was to deceive
    Me and not you: till you accidentally, as it seems,
    Came in their way: and then they could not help themselves:
    They even tried to avoid you.

    _Chr._                  Who were they?

    _Men._                                 Remember too
    ’Tis the feast of Bacchus to-day, ’tis not so great a crime
    To droll on a private person, at a time that is set apart
    For mirth and jollity, and when buffoonery too makes up
    A part of the festival.

    _Chr._            I think no gentleman                          1430
    Should suffer buffoonery to cover an insult.

    _Men._                                 Supposing not,
    Yet none was intended.

    _Chr._           Who were they?

    _Men._                          The deceit was planned for me,
    And I forgive it.

    _Chr._      Who were they?

    _Men._                     They came from yóur house.

    _Chr._ Not Clinia?

    _Men._       No; although it was done in his interest.
    Your son was one, and a friend ...

    _Chr._                       I know: Philolaches.
    I see.

    _Men._ It seems they had drawn from you, I know not how,
    Somewhat too harsh a picture of me: so ’twas resolved
    To put me to proof.

    _Chr._        Menedemus, since ’twas my own son,
    It does not matter; for now my account with him is closed.

    _Men._ What say you?

    _Chr._         Well, never mind. He is now no more my son.      1440
    O Menedemus, indeed he has treated me shamefully.
    This morning I thought your son had acted ill by you:
    How willingly now I’d change.

    _Men._                  You make too much of it.
    No harm was meant; and none has been done: a foolish hoax,
    And nothing more.

    _Chr._      You cannot hope to persuade me now
    There is any excuse for a son deceiving his own father.

    _Men._ I think a father would find one, Chremes, where there
       was none.

    _Chr._ Nay, nay: no more of him. I understand you came
    About my daughter.

    _Men._       I did. Clinia asks her hand.

    _Chr._ You know she is not that woman they made me
        think....

    _Men._      I know.                                             1450

    _Chr._ Menedemus, I never wished to have a daughter. I thought
    A girl was a burden, the worst possession a man could have;
    Costly to rear, costly to keep, costly to get rid of.
    It seems I was wrong. I have had a daughter, who from her cradle
    Has never cost me a single penny, and the very hour
    She is thrown on my hands, she has offers of marriage. ’Tis not
        for me
    To hinder the kindness of heaven. You are welcome to take her. Yet
    I have one condition: the dowry.

    _Men._                     Certainly: about that
    We shall not quarrel however. My son will be rich: and you      1459
    Will give as you think is fit.

    _Chr._                   I still shall insist on terms.
    You will not oppose a project of mine?

    _Men._                           I promise not;
    Consider it settled: & now let us put the business off,
    And bring the two young lovers happily face to face.
    I long to see Antiphila.

    _Chr._             Wait. I’ll call my wife,            [_Goes to_ L.
    And tell her to bring her out.

    _Men._                   And I will call my son.       [_Goes to_ R.
    (_Calling_) Clinia!

_Re-enter Clinia._

    _Clin._       Father!

    _Men._                Come! Is Pamphilus there?

    _Clin._                                         He is.

    _Men._ Let him be ready.

_Enter Sostrata and Antiphila._

    _Chr._             See here, Menedemus, my daughter.

    _Men._                                               And mine.
    My dear Antiphila, I fear you have heard hard tales of me:
    I have therefore the greater pleasure in bringing you, now we meet,
    The joy I have stood in the way of. I have asked your good
       father                                                       1470
    To grant your hand to my son in marriage: he has consented.
    See, here is Clinia. Let me join your hands—for ever.
    Be happy.

    _SOSTRATA._

    (_Aside._) The dear old man; see how he weeps for joy.

    _Chr._ You will not deny me now, Menedemus, I’m sure: you’ll come
    And spend what is left of the day at my house. You will
       dine with us?

    _Men._ With all my heart. You have not presented me to your wife.
    I beg....

    _Chr._ Come, Sostrata, come & make your compliments
    To our new relation.

    _Men._         Your servant, madam.

    _Sost._                             O sir, I am glad
    My Antiphila will have your son for a husband.

    _Men._                                   I am very proud
    Of such a daughter-in-law. But now, if I may ask,
    Where is your son Pamphilus? He should not be absent now.       1481

    _Chr._ Don’t ask for him.

    _Sost._             I beseech you speak with my husband, sir.

    _Chr._ I beg, Menedemus, you’ll say no more. I have cast him off.

    _Men._ I still shall venture to plead his forgiveness.

    _Chr._                                           ’Tis too late.
    I have sent him off already: he is gone.

    _Men._                             Not so: he is here.
    (_Calls_) Pamphilus! (_To Chremes_) Do not blame me; I promised
        to plead for him.

_Enter Pamphilus._

    _Chr._ How dare you again appear in my presence, wretch? Be off!
    I tell you that I disown you. Yes, Menedemus, & you
    Will not attempt, I beg, to avert the punishment
    He more than deserves. I have cast him away and cut him off.    1490
    My whole fortune I leave to Antiphila—that is the thing
    I said I sh^d ask—you promised not to oppose me: now
    I beg you will not.

    _Men._        Consider if you are wise.

    _Chr._                                  Not wise?

    _Sost._ O you are very unwise!

    _Chr._                   Wife!

    _Sost._                        Why, he is your son!

    _Chr._ Extremely kind of you to say so! there’s not a doubt in
        the world
    He is yours: but were I you, I sh^d not be very vain,
    Being mirrored in such a cub.

    _Sost._                 O Chremes, your own son!

    _Chr._ Not were he twice my son, and sprung from my head,
        as they say
    Minerva was from Jove’s, would I own him.

    _PAMPHILUS._

                                              Consider, sir,
    My mother’s feelings, although you do not consider me.          1500

    _Chr._ I do not consider you, sir? In all I have done,
    I have kept You and your follies in view: considering what you are,
    I thought you would rather think I considered you too much.
    I consider you reckless, sir; I consider that you pursue
    Your pleasure and vulgar tastes. I consider you quite unfit
    To be trusted with money, and so I have hit on a plan, by which
    You’ll be, I consider, spared the trouble of managing it;
    And though not launched on the world as I’d wish to see my son,
    You’ll be, I consider, ensured from absolute destitution.
    Unable to leave you my wealth, I turn to those that are next,      1510
    To them I do not shrink from entrusting it; and I consider,
    That at their house, Pamphilus, you will always find at least
    A refuge, food & clothes, & a roof above your head.

    _Pam._ Good God!

    _Chr._     Don’t swear.—’Tis better than that you should be
        my heir,
    And Gorgo squander it. Eh, sir?

    _Pam._                    O, I wish I was dead.

    _Chr._ First learn what ’tis to live: when you know that, if life
    Displease you still, then wish to die.

    _Men._                           Chremes, allow me
    To urge you in this. You could not really wish him to go
    To Persia, say, and forsake you, as Clinia díd mé.

    _Chr._ Forsake me! why, let him go to perdition for all I care, 1520
    Rather than stay at home and drag his father down
    To beggary with his vices and follies: for if I once
    Were saddled with his expenses, I guess ’twould come very soon
    To my using that spade of yours, Menedemus, in good earnest.

    _Men._ You offered me your advice this morning; now I in turn....

    _Chr._ I do not need advice.

    _Men._                 Spoil not so happy a day.

    _Chr._ I have found a daughter to-day, Menedemus, but lost a son.

    _Men._ You have lost your daughter to me, let me restore your son.

    _Sost._ O do forgive him, Chremes; you must.

    _Chr._                                 Pray, silence, wife.

    _Clin._ Me, sir, you cannot blame for taking a brother’s part.  1530
    His fault was partly mine: and what was wrongly done
    Was done in my behalf.

    _Chr._           No, no, there’s no excuse.

_Enter Philolaches as a Persian._

    _Men._ Why, here’s our friend the Persian.

    _Chr._                               Pray, sir, what will you?

    _PHILOLACHES._

      I hear you have been enquiring for me in the town. Behold me!

    _Chr._ I do not want you now: I know, sir, who you are.
    The game is all played out. We have done with masquerades,
    And personating others.

    _Ph._             I may take it then I address
    Chremes, and not Menedemus?

    _Chr._                You do, sir; and be so kind
    As now to restore me the money, which under a false pretence
    You made me give you to-day.

    _Ph._                  ’Tis not the Persian custom.             1540

    _Chr._ You and your Persian customs be hanged, sir; and I believe
    You’re more than half to blame for all the impertinence
    I have suffered to-day.

    _Ph._             I am, sir; I came to make the confession;
    But if you know it already, why do you spite your son?
    I have been your guest to-day, & if I have overstrained
    The liberty of the feast, I am ready in turn to pay
    The penalty. In the name of Bacchus, disown and cast off me,
    Disinherit me if you will. But him, your flesh & blood,
    Pity and forgive.

    _Men._         Yes, Chremes.

    _ANTIPHILA._

                                 O father, do give in!

    _Chr._ Now that’s the first time, lass, you have called me father.
       I see                                                        1550
    I shall have to yield.

    _Ant._           O thank you.

    _Chr._                        Stay. If I do give in,
    ’Tis only on two conditions.

    _Men._                 I’ll answer for Pamphilus,
    That he’ll accept them: what are they?

    _Chr._                           First, my forty pounds;
    To get that back from Gorgo.

    _Pam._                 I can’t do that.

    _Chr._                                  You can’t?

    _Men._ You spent that money, Chremes, advanced it rather for me,
    Thinking to do me a service. I’ll ask you let it be me
    Who does it for you. I’ll gladly pay it: it is not lost.
    Consider this condition fulfilled.

    _Chr._                       You are kinder far
    To my boy than he has deserved.

    _Men._                    And what is the other matter?

    _Chr._ This. He must marry.

    _Pam._                Father!

    _Chr._                        I will not hear a word.           1560

    _Men._ I’ll vouch for him that he will do it.

    _Chr._                                  He does not say so himself.

    _Pam._ No use,—impossible.

    _Sost._               Can you hesitate, Pamphilus?

    _Chr._ Nay, let him do as he likes.

    _Men._                        He’ll do it—everything.

    _Sost._ This must seem strange at first & disagreeable,
    Before you have even thought of it. When you know more of it,
    You’ll like it.

    _Pam._    I will, father.

    _Chr._                    Good! son: for though a wife
    Is an evil, she is a necessary evil, and one to which
    You will get accustomed in time. ’Tis more respectable too
    To be married; and the only cure for a temper such as yours.

    _Sost._ I’ll help you choose, my dear Pamphilus; I know who—    1570
    That clever, charming girl, whom you’ll be in love with directly;
    The orphan niece of our old neighbour, Phanocrates.

    _Pam._ What, not that red-haired thing, with a mouth from
        ear to ear,
    And a little knob of a nose. I couldn’t.

    _Chr._                             Why, only see
    How nice he has grown: it’s plain he means what he says now.

    _Sost._ Why, I’m sure, Pamphilus, she is a pinnacle of perfection.
    But I know another.