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.
11
Chr.Excuse me,
My good friend; and your spade, pray you, awhile put down.
You must stop working.
Men.No: I cannot rest a minute.
(Taking the spade.)
Chr. I can’t allow it indeed.
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.
20
Chr.No doubt; but better as I propose:
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
30
To give you a piece of advice: the fact is, you seem to me
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
40
Toiling at something or other. You are never a moment idle,
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.
49
Ere I advise, I’d first enquire what ’tis you do;
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;
62
For whether now I have or not, I cannot tell.
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;
69
But after the usual dictatorial manner of fathers.
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
80
I did not fritter away my time in making love;
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.
90
Chr. Both were to blame; however I think the step that he took
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
100
So busily are engaged? all for my comfort?
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
109
By my severe treatment, so long will I visit
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
120
Towards him, my absent son; and that ’twere crime to indulge
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.
130
Men. ’Tis as you say, I admit; but I was the more to blame.
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.
140
My condolence can make a distinction: the child you lost
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
150
This little relaxation. Think your absent son
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.
[Exit.
Men. Good-bye.
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
159
The wrong he has done his son. And that wrong too was not
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
170
Increases the satisfaction I feel, when I think how well
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
[Exit.
Did I not ask them. Now at once I’ll go and find them.

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
181
To meet me when you did. You must have betrayed yourself
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;
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But nothing less in the world, if it should be the occasion
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,
(Goes round peering.)
It is not old Menedemus.
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
200
Of all good company, the best invited man,
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:
210
For though there is nothing in the extremest scope of duty
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:
220
We have asked some friends to come: if you will be my guest,
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.

230
Chr.What are you doing, Pamphilus,
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?
240
Pam.You know when first I came to school at Athens,
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
250
You are intimate with this foolish, dissolute young man.
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.
260
Chr. (aside).I must not let my son
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 shd 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
270
A hardship, was nothing of the kind: the so-called severities
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
281
Return from his evil ways to a dutiful course of conduct.
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
299
I have promised to do what I can: but since, before I act,
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.
311
Chr. It happens, Pamphilus, we are short of guests; I find
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.
320
Chr.Who then? I beg you’ll bring
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
329
Has invited you to our house. There’s not much I can offer,
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.
[Exit Chremes within.
Pam.Ay, sir....
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,
340
They could not have done it better than I. My father bids
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:
351
Now I have a lady friend, with whom I am circumstanced
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 shd wish to tell him all my private affairs?
360
Pam. Ah, he can smell a rat; but don’t be afraid of him;
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
370
This day of my return with sweet Antiphila:
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.

380
Sir,
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.
390
Ph.If that’s the case,
I see that your wish must be, that I shd 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
401
The last wandering spark of affection, I’ll blow it to flame,
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.
410
Ph. What matter, when all the time you are just behind the hedge?
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.
420
Ph.A very delicate point.
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,
428
Let them but change their parts. Gorgo—for that’s the lady,
Whom you would bring, I guess—let Gorgo pass to-day
For Clinia’s mistress; let Antiphila play the maid;
Wh 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.
440
Ph.Wish you to find out that?
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.
450
Clin. Though, sir, I were quite content to reckon upon your zeal,
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 cd 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.
460
I’ll yield so far as this: that if Philolaches
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.
470
Clin.And both this afternoon.
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.
480
But don’t stay out here longer: somebody is sure to see you.
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.
[Exit Clinia within.
Pam. Why, man alive, there’s only my father and mother. Go in.
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.
491
Ph.Not in a Persian dress.
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.