The Comedies of Terence Part 49

CLIN. (_listening_). Death!

SYRUS. Gold, clothes!

It grows late too, and they may miss their way.

We've been to blame: Dromo, run back, and meet them.

Away! quick! don't loiter.

(_Exit DROMO._

CLIN. What a wretch!

All my fair hopes quite blasted!

c.l.i.t. What's the matter?

What is it troubles you?

CLIN. What troubles me?

D'ye hear? She waiting-women, gold, and clothes!

She, whom I left with one poor servant-girl!

Whence come they, think you?

c.l.i.t. Oh, I take you now.

SYRUS (_to himself_). G.o.ds, what a crowd! our house will hardly hold them.

What eating, and what drinking will there be!

How miserable our old gentleman!

But here are those I wish'd to see!

(_Seeing c.l.i.t. and CLIN._)

CLIN. Oh Jove!

Where then are truth, and faith, and honor fled?

While I a fugitive, for love of you, Quit my dear country, you, Antiphila, For sordid gain desert me in distress!

You, for whose sake I courted infamy, And cast off my obedience to my father.

He, I remember now with grief and shame, Oft warn'd me of these women's ways; oft tried In vain by sage advice to wean me from her.

But now I bid farewell to her forever; Though, when 'twere good and wholesome, I was froward.

No wretch more curs'd than I!

SYRUS. He has misconstrued All our discourse, I find--You fancy, Clinia, Your mistress other than she is. Her life, As far as we from circ.u.mstance could learn, Her disposition tow'rd you, are the same.

CLIN. How! tell me all: for there is naught on earth I'd rather know than that my fears are false.

SYRUS. First then, that you may be appris'd of all, Th' old woman, thought her mother, was not so: That beldam also is deceas'd; for this I overheard her, as we came along, Telling the other.

c.l.i.t. Other! who? what other?

SYRUS. Let me but finish what I have begun, And I shall come to that.

c.l.i.t. Dispatch then.

SYRUS. First, Having arriv'd, Dromo knocks at the door: Which an old woman had no sooner open'd, But in goes Dromo, and I after him.

Th' old woman bolts the door, and spins again, And now, or never, Clinia, might be known, Coming thus unexpectedly upon her, Antiphila's employments in your absence: For such, as then we saw, we might presume Her daily practice, which of all things else, Betrays the mind and disposition most.

Busily plying of the web we found her, Decently clad in mourning,--I suppose, For the deceas'd old woman.--She had on No gold or trinkets, but was plain and neat, And dress'd like those who dress but for themselves.

No female varnish to set off her beauty: Her hair dishevel'd, long, and flowing loose About her shoulders.--Peace! (_To CLINIA._)

CLIN. Nay, prithee, Syrus, Do not transport me thus without a cause.

SYRUS. Th' old woman spun the woof; one servant-girl, A tatter'd dirty dowdy, weaving by her.

c.l.i.t. Clinia, if this be true, as sure it is, Who is more fortunate than you? D'ye mark The ragged dirty girl that he describ'd?

A sign the mistress leads a blameless life, When she maintains no flaunting go-between: For 'tis a rule with those gallants, who wish To win the mistress, first to bribe the maid.

CLIN. Go on, I beg you, Syrus; and take heed You fill me not with idle joy.--What said she When you nam'd me?

SYRUS. As soon as we inform'd her You was return'd, and begg'd her to come to you, She left her work immediately, and burst Into a flood of tears, which one might see Were shed for love of you.

CLIN. By all the G.o.ds, I know not where I am for very joy.

Oh, how I trembled!

c.l.i.t. Without cause, I knew.

But come; now, Syrus, tell us, who's that other?

SYRUS. Your mistress, Bacchis.

c.l.i.t. How! what! Bacchis? Tell me, Where d'ye bring her, rogue?

SYRUS. Where do I bring her?

To our house certainly.

c.l.i.t. My father's?

SYRUS. Aye.

c.l.i.t. Oh monstrous impudence!

SYRUS. Consider, Sir; More danger, the more honor.

c.l.i.t. Look ye, Sirrah, You mean to purchase praise at my expense, Where the least slip of yours would ruin me.

What is't you drive at?

SYRUS. But----

c.l.i.t. But what?

SYRUS. I'll tell you, Give me but leave!

CLIN. Permit him.

c.l.i.t. Well, I do.

SYRUS. This business--now--is just as if-- (_Drawling._)

c.l.i.t. Confusion!