The Comedies of Terence

Lest any of you wonder, why the Bard

To an old actor hath assign’d the part

Sustain’d of old by young performers; that

I’ll first explain: then say what brings

To-day, a whole play, wholly from the Greek,

We mean to represent:—The Self-Tormentor:

Wrought from a single to a double plot.

Now therefore that our comedy is new,

And what it is, I’ve shown: who wrote it too,

And whose in Greek it is, were I not sure

Most of you knew already, would I tell.

But, wherefore I have ta’en this part upon me,

In brief I will deliver: for the Bard

Has sent me here as pleader, not as Prologue;

You he declares his judges, me his counsel:

And yet as counsel nothing can I speak

More than the Author teaches me to say,

Who wrote th’ oration which I now recite.

As to reports, which envious men have spread,

That he has ransack’d many Grecian plays,

While he composes some few Latin ones,

That he denies not, he has done; nor does

Repent he did it; means to do it still;

Safe in the warrant and authority

Of greater bards, who did long since the same.

Then for the charge, that his arch-enemy

Maliciously reproaches him withal,

That he but lately hath applied himself

To music, with the genius of his friends,

Rather than natural talents, fraught; how true,

Your judgment, your opinion, must decide.

I would entreat you, therefore, not to lean

To tales of slander, rather than of candor.

Be favorable; nurse with growing hopes

The bards, who give you pleasing novelties;

Pleasing I say, not such as His I mean,

Who lately introduc’d a breathless slave,

Making the crowd give way—But wherefore trace

A dunce’s faults? which shall be shown at large,

When more he writes, unless he cease to rail.

Attend impartially! and let me once

Without annoyance act an easy part;

Lest your old servant be o’er-labor’d still

With toilsome characters, the running slave,

The eating parasite, enrag’d old man,

The bold-fac’d sharper, covetous procurer;

Parts, that ask pow’rs of voice, and iron sides.

Deign then, for my sake, to accept this plea,

And grant me some remission from my labor.

For they, who now produce new comedies,

Spare not my age! If there is aught laborious,

They run to me; but if of little weight,

Away to others. In our piece to-day

The style is pure: now try my talents then

In either character. If I for gain,

Never o’er-rated my abilities;

If I have held it still my chief reward

To be subservient to your pleasure; fix

In me a fair example, that our youth

May seek to please you, rather than themselves.

Chrem. Though our acquaintance is as yet but young,

Since you have bought this farm that neighbors mine,

Mene. Have you such leisure from your own affairs

To think of those, that don’t concern you, Chremes?

Chrem. I am a man, and feel for all mankind.

Think, I advise, or ask for information:

If right, that I may do the same; if wrong,

To turn you from it.

Mene. I have need to do thus.

Do you as you think fit.

Chrem. Need any man

Torment himself?

Chrem. Nay, weep not; but inform me.

Be not reserv’d; fear nothing: prithee, trust me:

By consolation, counsel, or assistance,

I possibly may serve you.

Mene. Would you know it?

Chrem. Aye, for the very reason I have mention’d.

Mene. I will inform you.

Chrem. But meanwhile lay down

Those rakes: don’t tire yourself.

Mene. It must not be.

Chrem. What mean you?

Mene. Give me leave: that I may take

No respite from my toil.

Chrem. I’ll not allow it. (Taking away the rakes.)

Mene. Ah, you do wrong.

Chrem. What, and so heavy too! (Weighing them in his hand.)

Mene. Such my desert.

Chrem. Now speak. (Laying down the rakes.)

Mene. One only son

I have.—Have, did I say?—Had I mean, Chremes.

Have I or no, is now uncertain.

Chrem. Wherefore?

Mene. That you shall know. An old Corinthian woman

Now sojourns here, a stranger in these parts,

And very poor. It happen’d, of her daughter

My son became distractedly enamor’d;——

E’en to the brink of marriage; and all this

Unknown to me: which I no sooner learn’d

Than I began to deal severely with him,

Not as a young and love-sick mind requir’d,

But in the rough and usual way of fathers.

Daily I chid him; crying, “How now, Sir!

Think you that you shall hold these courses long,

And I your father living?—Keep a mistress,

As if she were your wife!—You are deceiv’d,

If you think that, and do not know me, Clinia.

While you act worthily, you’re mine; if not,

I shall act toward you worthy of myself.

All this arises from mere idleness.

I, at your age, ne’er thought of love; but went

To seek my fortune in the wars in Asia,

And there acquir’d in arms both wealth and glory.”

—In short, things came to such a pass, the youth,

O’ercome with hearing still the self-same thing,

And wearied out with my reproaches; thinking,

Age and experience had enabled me

To judge his interest better than himself,

Went off to serve the king in Asia, Chremes.

Chrem. How say you?

Mene. Stole away three months ago,

Without my knowledge.

Chrem. Both have been to blame:

And yet this enterprise bespeaks a mind,

Modest and manly.

Mene. Having heard of this

From some of his familiars, home I came

Mournful, half-mad, and almost wild with grief.

I sit me down; my servants run to me;

Some draw my sandals off; while others haste

To spread the couches, and prepare the supper:

Each in his way, I mark, does all he can

To mitigate my sorrow. Noting this,

“How,” said I to myself, “so many then

Anxious for me alone? to pleasure me?

So many slaves to dress me? All this cost

For me alone?—Meanwhile, my only son,

For whom all these were fit, as well as me,

Nay rather more, since he is of an age

More proper for their use; him, him, poor boy,

Has my unkindness driven forth to sorrow.

Oh I were worthy of the heaviest curse,

Could I brook that!—No; long as he shall lead

A life of penury abroad, an exile

Through my unjust severity, so long

Will I revenge his wrongs upon myself,

Laboring, scraping, sparing, slaving for him.”

—In short, I did so; in the house I left

Nor clothes, nor movables: I scrap’d up all.

My slaves, both male and female, except those

Who more than earn’d their bread in country-work,

I sold: Then set my house to sale: In all

I got together about fifteen talents;

Purchas’d this farm; and here fatigue myself;

Thinking I do my son less injury,

While I’m in misery too; nor is it just

For me, I think, to taste of pleasure here,

Till he return in safety to partake on’t.

Chrem. You I believe a tender parent, him

A duteous son, if govern’d prudently.

But you was unacquainted with his nature,

And he with yours: sad life, where things are so!

You ne’er betray’d your tenderness to him;

Nor durst he place that confidence in you,

Which well becomes the bosom of a father.

Had that been done, this had not happen’d to you.

Mene. True, I confess; but I was most in fault.

Chrem. All, Menedemus, will, I hope, be well,

And trust, your son will soon return in safety.

Mene. Grant it, good Gods!

Chrem. They will. Now, therefore, since

The Dionysia are held here to-day,

If ’tis convenient, come, and feast with me.

Mene. Impossible.

Chrem. Why so?—Nay, prithee now,

Indulge yourself a while: your absent son,

I’m sure, would have it so.

Mene. It is not meet,

That I, who drove him forth to misery,

Should fly it now myself.

Chrem. You are resolv’d?

Mene. Most constantly.

Chrem. Farewell then!

Mene. Fare you well!

Exit.

As yet, my Clinia, you’ve no cause to fear:

They are not long: and she, I’m confident,

Will be here shortly with the messenger.

Prithee, away then with these idle cares,

Which thus torment you!

Chrem. (behind.) Whom does my son speak to?

Clit. My father as I wish’d—Good Sir, well met.

Chrem. What now?

Clit. D’ye know our neighbor Menedemus?

Chrem. Aye, very well.

Clit. D’ye know he has a son?

Chrem. I’ve heard he is in Asia.

Clit. No such thing.

He’s at our house, Sir.

Chrem. How!

Clit. But just arriv’d:

Ev’n at his landing I fell in with him,

And brought him here to supper: for, from boys,

We have been friends and intimates.

Clit. Because the youth is yet in doubt:

Newly arriv’d; in fear of ev’ry thing;

He dreads his father’s anger, and suspects

The disposition of his mistress tow’rds him;

Her, whom he dotes upon; on whose account,

This diff’rence and departure came about.

Chrem. I know it.

Clit. He has just dispatch’d his boy

Into the city to her, and our Syrus

I sent along with him.

Chrem. What says the son?

Clit. Says? that he’s miserable.

Chrem. Miserable!

Who needs be less so? for what earthly good

Can man possess which he may not enjoy?

Parents, a prosp’rous country, friends, birth, riches.

Yet these all take their value from the mind

Of the possessor: he that knows their use,

To him they’re blessings; he that knows it not,

To him misuse converts them into curses.

Clit. Nay, but he ever was a cross old man:

And now there’s nothing that I dread so much,

As lest he be transported in his rage

To some gross outrages against his son.

Chrem. He!—He!—But I’ll contain myself. ’Tis good

For Menedemus that his son should fear. (Aside.)

Clit. What say you, Sir, within yourself! (Overhearing.)

Chrem. I say,

Be’t as it might, the son should have remain’d.

Grant that the father bore too strict a hand

Upon his loose desires; he should have borne it.

Whom would he bear withal, if not a parent?

Was’t fitting that the father should conform

To the son’s humor, or the son to his?

And for the rigor that he murmurs at,

’Tis nothing: the severities of fathers,

Unless perchance a hard one here and there,

Are much the same: they reprimand their sons

For riotous excesses, wenching, drinking;

And starve their pleasures by a scant allowance.

Yet this all tends to good: but when the mind

Is once enslav’d to vicious appetites,

It needs must follow vicious measures too.

Remember then this maxim, Clitipho,

A wise one ’tis to draw from others’ faults

A profitable lesson for yourself.

Clit. I do believe it.

Chrem. Well, I’ll in, and see

What is provided for our supper: you,

As the day wears, see that you’re not far hence.

Exit.

What partial judges of all sons are fathers!

Who ask gray wisdom from our greener years,

And think our minds should bear no touch of youth;

Governing by their passions, now kill’d in them,

And not by those that formerly rebell’d.

If ever I’ve a son, I promise him

He shall find me an easy father; fit

To know, and apt to pardon his offenses!

Not such as mine, who, speaking of another,

Shows how he’d act in such a case himself:

Yet when he takes a cup or two too much,

Oh, what mad pranks he tells me of his own:

But warns me now “to draw from others’ faults

A profitable lesson for myself.”

Cunning old gentleman! he little knows,

He pours his proverbs in a deaf man’s ear.

The words of Bacchis, Give me, Bring me, now

Have greater weight with me: to whose commands,

Alas! I’ve nothing to reply withal;

Nor is there man more wretched than myself.

For Clinia here (though he, I must confess,

Has cares enough) has got a mistress, modest,

Well-bred, and stranger to all harlot arts:

Mine is a self-will’d, wanton, haughty madam,

Gay, and extravagant; and let her ask

Whate’er she will, she must not be denied;

Since poverty I durst not make my plea.

This is a plague I have but newly found,

Nor is my father yet appris’d of it.

Clin. Had my affairs in love been prosperous,

They had, I know, been here long since: but, ah,

I fear she’s fall’n from virtue in my absence:

So many things concur to prove it so,

My mind misgives me; opportunity,

The place, her age, an infamous old mother,

Under whose governance she lives, to whom

’Naught but gain’s precious.

To him Clitipho.

Clit. Clinia!

Clin. Woe is me! (To himself.)

Clit. Take heed, lest some one issue from your father’s,

And chance to see you here.

Clin. I will: but yet

My mind forebodes I know not what of ill.

Clit. What, still foreboding, ere you know the truth?

Clin. Had there been no untoward circumstance,

They had return’d already

Clit. Patience, Clinia!

They’ll be here presently.

Clin. Presently! but when?

Clit. Consider, ’tis a long way off: and then

You know the ways of women; to set off,

And trick their persons out, requires an age.

Clin. Oh Clitipho, I fear——

Clit. Take courage; see,

Dromo and Syrus!

Syrus. Say you?

Dromo. Even so.

Syrus. But while we chat, the girls are left behind.

Clit. (listening.) Girls, Clinia! do you hear?

Clin. I hear, I see,

And now, at last, I’m happy, Clitipho.

Dromo (to Syrus). Left behind! troth, no wonder: so encumber’d;

A troop of waiting-women at her heels!

Clin. (listening). Confusion! Whence should she have waiting-women?

Clit. How can I tell?

Syrus (to Dromo). We ought not to have dropp’d them.

They bring a world of baggage!

Clit. 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?

Clit. Oh, I take you now.

Syrus (to himself). Gods, 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 Clit. 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 circumstance 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.

Clit. Other! who? what other?

Syrus. Let me but finish what I have begun,

And I shall come to that.

Clit. 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.

Clit. 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 Gods,

I know not where I am for very joy.

Oh, how I trembled!

Clit. Without cause, I knew.

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

Clit. Oh monstrous impudence!

Syrus. Consider, Sir;

More danger, the more honor.

Clit. 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——

Clit. But what?

Syrus. I’ll tell you,

Give me but leave!

Clin. Permit him.

Clit. Well, I do.

Syrus. This business—now—is just as if— (Drawling.)

Clit. Confusion!

What a long roundabout beginning!

Clin. True.

To the point, Syrus!

Syrus. I’ve no patience with you.

You use me ill, Sir, and I can’t endure it.

Clin. Hear him: peace, Clitipho! (To Clitipho.)

Syrus. You’d be in love;

Possess your mistress; and have wherewithal

To make her presents: but to gain all this

You’d risk no danger. By my troth, you’re wise,

If it be wise to wish for what can’t be.

Take good and bad together; both, or none;

Choose which you will; no mistress, or no danger.

And yet, the scheme I’ve laid is fair and safe;

Your mistress may be with you at your father’s

Without detection; by the self-same means

I shall procure the sum you’ve promis’d her,

Which you have rung so often in my ears,

You’ve almost deafen’d them.—What would you more?

Clit. If it may be so——

Syrus. If! the proof shall show.

Clit. Well, well then, what’s this scheme?

Syrus. We will pretend

That Bacchis is his mistress.

Clit. Mighty fine!

What shall become then of his own? Shall she

Pass for his too, because one’s not enough

To answer for?

Syrus. No. She shall to your mother.

Clit. How so?

Syrus. ’Twere tedious, Clitipho, to tell:

Let it suffice, I’ve reason for it.

Clit. Nonsense!

I see no ground to make me hazard this.

Syrus. Well; if you dread this, I’ve another way,

Which you shall both own has no danger in’t.

Clit. Aye, prithee, find that out.

Syrus. With all my heart.

I’ll run and meet the woman on the road,

And order them to go straight home again.

Clit. How! what!

Syrus. I mean to ease you of your fear,

That you may sleep in peace on either side. (Going.)

Clit. What shall I do?

Clin. E’en profit of his scheme.

Clit. But, Syrus, tell me then——

Syrus. Away, away!

This day too late you’ll wish for her in vain. (Going.)

Clin. This is your time: enjoy it, while you may:

Who knows if you may have the like again?

Clit. Syrus, I say.

Syrus. Call as you please, I’ll on.

Clit. Clinia, you’re right.—Ho, Syrus! Syrus, ho!

Syrus, I say.

Syrus. So, he grows hot at last. (To himself.)

What would you, Sir? (Turning about.)

Clit. Come back, come back!

Syrus. I’m here. (Returns.)

You’re pleasure, Sir!—What, will not this content you?

Clit. Yes, Syrus; me, my passion, and my fame

I render up to you: dispose of all;

But see you’re not to blame.

Syrus. Ridiculous!

Spare your advice, good Clitipho! you know

Success is my concern still more than yours:

For if perchance we fail in our attempt,

You shall have words; but I, alas! dry blows.

Be sure then of my diligence; and beg

Your friend to join, and countenance our scheme.

Syrus. I came just in time,

Time, that in most affairs is all in all:

For there I found a certain wretched captain,

Begging her favors. She, an artful baggage,

Denied him, to inflame his mind the more,

And make her court to you.—But hark ye, Sir,

Be cautious of your conduct! no imprudence!

You know how shrewd and keen your father is;

And I know your intemperance too well.

No double-meanings, glances, leers, sighs, hems,

Coughing, or titt’ring, I beseech you, Sir!

Clit. I’ll play my part——

Syrus. Look to’t!

Clit. To your content.

Syrus. But see, the women! they’re soon after us. (Looking out.)

Clit. Where are they?— (Syrus stops him.) Why d’ye hold me?

Syrus. She is not

Your mistress now.

Clit. True: not before my father.

But now, meanwhile——

Syrus. Nor now, meanwhile,

Clit. Allow me!

Syrus. No.

Clit. But a moment!

Syrus. No.

Clit. A single kiss!

Syrus. Away, if you are wise!

Clit. Well, well, I’m gone.

—What’s he to do?

Syrus. Stay here.

Clit. O happy——

Syrus. March! (Pushes off Clitipho.)

Bacch. Well, I commend you, my Antiphila:

Happy, that you have made it still your care,

That virtue should seem fair as beauty in you!

Nor Gracious Heav’n so help me, do I wonder

If ev’ry man should wish you for his own;

For your discourse bespeaks a worthy mind.

And when I ponder with myself, and weigh

Your course of life, and all the rest of those

Who live not on the common, ’tis not strange,

Your morals should be different from ours.

Virtue’s your int’rest; those, with whom we deal,

Forbid it to be ours: For our gallants,

Charm’d by our beauty, court us but for that;

Which fading, they transfer their love to others.

If then meanwhile we look not to ourselves,

We live forlorn, deserted, and distress’d.

You, when you’ve once agreed to pass your life

Bound to one man, whose temper suits with yours,

He too attaches his whole heart to you:

Thus mutual friendship draws you each to each;

Nothing can part you, nothing shake your love.

Anti. I know not others’; for myself I know,

From his content I ever drew my own.

Clin. (overhearing). Excellent maid! my best Antiphila! Thou too, thy love alone is now the cause That brings me to my native land again. For when away, all evils else were light Compar’d to wanting thee. Syrus. I do believe it.		(Apart.)
Clin. O Syrus, ’tis too much: I can not bear it. Wretch that I am!—and must I be debarr’d To give a loose to love, a love like this? Syrus. And yet if I may judge your father’s mind, He has more troubles yet in store for you.

Bacch. Who is that youth that eyes us? (Seeing Clinia.)

Anti. Ha! (seeing him.)—Support me!

Bacch. Bless me, what now?

Anti. I faint.

Bacch. Alas, poor soul!

What is’t surprises you, Antiphila?

Anti. Is’t Clinia that I see, or no?

Bacch. Whom do you see?

Clin. Welcome my soul! (Running up to her.)

Anti. My wish’d-for Clinia, welcome!

Clin. How fares my love?

Anti. O’erjoyed at your return.

Clin. And do I hold thee, my Antiphila,

Thou only wish and comfort of my soul!

Syrus. In, in, for you have made our good man wait.

Exeunt.

Chrem. ’Tis now just daybreak.—Why delay I then

To call my neighbor forth, and be the first

To tell him of his son’s return?—The youth,

I understand, would fain not have it so.

But shall I, when I see this poor old man

Afflict himself so grievously, by silence

Rob him of such an unexpected joy,

When the discov’ry can not hurt the son?

No, I’ll not do’t; but far as in my pow’r

Assist the father. As my son, I see,

Ministers to th’ occasions of his friend,

Associated in counsels, rank, and age,

So we old men should serve each other too.

Mene. (to himself). Sure I’m by nature form’d for misery

Beyond the rest of humankind, or else

’Tis a false saying, though a common one,

“That time assuages grief.” For ev’ry day

My sorrow for the absence of my son

Grows on my mind: the longer he’s away,

The more impatiently I wish to see him,

The more pine after him.

Chrem. But he’s come forth. (Seeing Menedemus.)

Yonder he stands. I’ll go and speak with him.

Good-morrow, neighbor! I have news for you;

Such news as you’ll be overjoy’d to hear.

Mene. Of my son, Chremes?

Chrem. He’s alive and well.

Mene. Where?

Chrem. At my house.

Mene. My son?

Chrem. Your son.

Mene. Come home?

Chrem. Come home.

Mene. My dear boy come? my Clinia?

Chrem. He.

Mene. Away then! prithee, bring me to him.

Chrem. Hold!

He cares not you should know of his return,

And dreads your sight because of his late trespass.

He fears, besides, your old severity

Is now augmented.

Mene. Did not you inform him

The bent of my affections?

Chrem. Not I.

Mene. Wherefore, Chremes?

Chrem. Because ’twould injure both yourself and him

To seem of such a poor and broken spirit.

Mene. I can not help it. Too long, much too long,

I’ve been a cruel father.

Chrem. Ah, my friend,

You run into extremes; too niggardly,

Or, too profuse; imprudent either way.

First, rather than permit him entertain

A mistress, who was then content with little,

And glad of any thing, you drove him hence:

Whereon the girl was forc’d against her will,

To grow a common gamester for her bread:

And now she can’t be kept without much cost,

You’d squander thousands. For to let you know

How admirably madam’s train’d to mischief,

How finely form’d to ruin her admirers,

She came to my house yesternight with more

Than half a score of women at her tail,

Laden with clothes and jewels.—If she had

A Prince to her gallant, he could not bear

Such wild extravagance: much less can you.

Mene. Is she within too?

Chrem. She within! Aye, truly.

I’ve found it to my cost: for I have given

To her and her companions but one supper;

And to give such another would undo me.

For, not to dwell on other circumstances,

Merely to taste, and smack, and spirt about.

What quantities of wine has she consum’d!

This is too rough, she cries; some softer, pray!

I have pierc’d every vessel, ev’ry cask;

Kept ev’ry servant running to and fro:

All this ado, and all in one short night!

What, Menedemus, must become of you,

Whom they will prey upon continually?

Now, afore Heaven, thinking upon this,

I pitied you.

Chrem. Now on my life I have not clos’d my eyes,

Nor had a single wink of sleep this night,

For thinking how I might restore your son.

Mene. Give me your hand: and let me beg you, Chremes,

Continue to assist me!

Chrem. Willingly.

Mene. D’ye know what I would have you do at present?

Chrem. What?

Mene. Since you have found out they meditate

Some practice on me, prithee, urge them on

To execute it quickly: for I long

To grant his wishes, long to see him straight.

Chrem. Let me alone. I must lay hold of Syrus,

And give him some encouragement.—But see!

Some one, I know not who, comes forth: In, in,

Lest they perceive that we consult together!

I have a little business too in hand.

Simus and Crito, our two neighbors here,

Have a dispute about their boundaries;

And they’ve referr’d it to my arbitration,

I’ll go and tell them, ’tis not in my power

To wait on them, as I propos’d to-day.

I will be with you presently.

Mene. Pray do.

Exit Chremes.

Gods! that the nature of mankind is such,

To see and judge of the affairs of others

Much better than their own! Is’t therefore so,

Because that, in our own concerns, we feel

The influence of joy or grief too nearly?

Too much the influence of joy or sorrow?

How much more wisely does my neighbor here,

Consult for me, than I do for myself!

Chrem. (returning.) I’ve disengag’d myself! that I might be

At leisure to attend on your affairs.

Exit Menedemus.