The Comedies of Terence

I then will hence, since he, on whose account

I hither came, is gone into the country.

He is my only care, He’s my concern.

My brother, since he needs will have it so,

May look to Æschinus himself.——But who

Is coming yonder? Hegio, of our tribe?

If I see plainly, beyond doubt ’tis he.

Ah, we’ve been old acquaintance quite from boys;

And such men nowadays are wondrous scarce.

A citizen of ancient faith and virtue!

The commonwealth will ne’er reap harm from him.

How I rejoice to see but the remains

Of this old stock! Ah, life’s a pleasure now.

I’ll wait, that I may ask about his health,

And have a little conversation with him.

Hegio. You knew

Our friend and good acquaintance, Simulus?

Dem. Aye, sure.

Hegio. He has debauch’d his daughter.

Dem. How!

Hegio. Hold, Demea, for the worst is still to come.

Dem. Is there aught worse?

Hegio. Much worse: for this perhaps

Might be excus’d. The night, love, wine, and youth,

Might prompt him. ’Tis the frailty of our nature.

—Soon as his sense returning made him conscious

Of his rash outrage, of his own accord

He came to the girl’s mother, weeping, praying.

Entreating, vowing constancy, and swearing

That he would take her home.—He was forgiven;

The thing conceal’d; and his vows credited.

The girl from that encounter prov’d with child:

This is the tenth month.—He, good gentleman,

Has got a music-girl, Heav’n bless the mark!

With whom he means to live, and quit the other.

Dem. And are you well assur’d of this?

Hegio. The mother,

The girl, the fact itself, are all before you,

Joining to vouch the truth on’t. And besides,

This Geta here—as servants go, no bad one,

Nor given up to idleness—maintains them;

The sole support of all the family.

Here take him, bind him, force the truth from him.

Geta. Aye, torture me, if ’tis not so, good Demea!

Nay, Æschinus, I’m sure, will not deny it.

Bring me before him.

Dem. (aside). I’m asham’d: and what

To do, or what to say to him, I know not.

Pamphila (within). Ah me! I’m torn in pieces!—Racking pains!

Juno Lucina, help me! save, I pray thee!

Hegio. Ha! Is she then in labor, Geta?

Geta. Yes, Sir.

Hegio. Hark! she now calls upon your justice, Demea!

Grant her then freely, what law else will claim.

And Heaven send, that you may rather do

What honor bids! but if you mean it not,

Be sure of this; that with my utmost force

I’ll vindicate the girl, and her dead father;

He was my kinsman; we were bred together

From children; and our fortunes twin’d together

In war, and peace, and bitter poverty.

Wherefore I’ll try, endeavor, strive, nay lose

My life itself, before I will forsake them.

—What is your answer?

Dem. I’ll find out my brother:

What he advises, I will follow, Hegio.

Hegio. But still remember, Demea, that the more

You live at ease; the more your pow’r, your wealth,

Your riches, and nobility; the more

It is your duty to act honorably,

If you regard the name of honest men.

Dem. Go to: we’ll do you justice.

Hegio. ’Twill become you.

Geta, conduct me in to Sostrata.

Exit with Geta.

This is no more than I foretold: and well

If his intemp’rance would stop here!—But this

Immoderate indulgence must produce

Some terrible misfortune in the end.

—I’ll hence, find out my brother, tell my news,

And empty all my indignation on him.

Exit.

Be of good cheer, my Sostrata; and comfort,

As much as in your pow’r, poor Pamphila!

I’ll find out Micio, if he’s at the Forum,

And tell him the whole story: if he’ll act

With honor in it, why ’tis well; if not,

Let him but speak his mind to me, and then

I shall know how to act accordingly.

Exit.

Ctes. My father gone into the country, say you?

Syrus. Long since.

Ctes. Nay; speak the truth!

Syrus. He’s at his farm,

And hard at work, I warrant you.

Ctes. I wish,

So that his health were not the worse for it,

He might so heartily fatigue himself,

As to be forc’d to keep his bed these three days!

Syrus. I wish so too; and more, if possible.

Ctes. With all my heart: for I would fain consume,

As I’ve begun, the livelong day in pleasure.

Nor do I hate that farm of ours so much

For any thing, as that it is so near.

For if ’twas at a greater distance, night

Would come upon him ere he could return.

But now, not finding me, I’m very sure

He’ll hobble back again immediately;

Question me where I’ve been, that I’ve not seen him

All the day long; and what shall I reply?

Syrus. What? can you think of nothing?

Ctes. No, not I.

Syrus. So much the worse.—Have you no client, friend,

Or guest?

Ctes. I have. What then?

Syrus. You’ve been engag’d

With them.

Ctes. When not engag’d? It can not be.

Syrus. It may.

Ctes. Aye, marry, for the day I grant you.

But if I pass the night here, what excuse

Then, Syrus?

Syrus. Ah! I would it were the custom

To be engag’d at night too with one’s friends!

—But be at ease! I know his mind so well,

That when he raves the loudest, I can make him

As gentle as a lamb.

Ctes. How so?

Syrus. He loves

To hear you prais’d. I sing your praises to him,

And make you out a little God.

Ctes. Me!

Syrus. You.

And then the old man blubbers like a child,

For very joy.—But have a care! (Looking out.)

Ctes. What now?

Syrus. The wolf i’ th’ fable!

Ctes. What, my father?

Syrus. He.

Ctes. What’s the best, Syrus?

Syrus. In! fly! I’ll take care.

Ctes. You have not seen me, if he asks: d’ye hear?

Syrus. Can’t you be quiet? (Pushes out Ctesipho.)

Dem. Verily I am

A most unhappy man! for first of all,

I can not find my brother any where:

And then besides, in looking after him,

I chanc’d on one of my day laborers,

Who had but newly left my farm, and told me

Ctesipho was not there. What shall I do?

Dem. (to himself). Plague on it, what ill luck is this?

I can’t account for it: but I believe

That I was born for nothing but misfortunes.

I am the first who feels our woes; the first

Who knows of them; the first who tells the news:

And come what may, I bear the weight alone.

Syrus (behind). Ridiculous! he says he knows all first;

And he alone is ignorant of all.

Dem. I’m now return’d to see if Micio

Be yet come home again.

Dem. (seeing Syrus). But see that rascal Syrus coming hither!

Syrus (advancing hastily, and pretending not to see Demea).

By Hercules, there is no living here,

For any one, at this rate.—I’d fain know

How many masters I’m to have.—Oh monstrous!

Dem. What does he howl for? what’s the meaning on’t?

Hark ye, my good Sir! prithee tell me if

My brother be at home.

Syrus. My good Sir! Plague!

Why do you come with your good Sirs to me?

I’m half-kill’d.

Dem. What’s the matter?

Syrus. What’s the matter!

Ctesipho, vengeance on him, fell upon me,

And cudgel’d me and the poor Music-Girl

Almost to death.

Dem. Indeed?

Syrus. Indeed. Nay see

How he has cut my lip. (Pretending to show it.)

Dem. On what account?

Syrus. The girl, he says, was bought by my advice.

Dem. Did not you say you saw him out of town

A little while ago?

Syrus. And so I did.

But he came back soon after, like a madman.

He had no mercy.—Was not he asham’d

To beat a poor old fellow? to beat me;

Who bore him in my arms but t’other day,

An urchin thus high? (Showing.)

Dem. Oh rare, Ctesipho!

Father’s own son! a man, I warrant him.

Syrus. Oh rare, d’ye cry? I’ faith, if he is wise,

He’ll hold his hands another time.

Dem. Oh brave!

Syrus. Oh mighty brave, indeed!—Because he beat

A helpless girl, and me a wretched slave,

Who durst not strike again;—oh, to be sure,

Mighty brave, truly!

Dem. Oh, most exquisite!

My Ctesipho perceived, as well as I,

That you was the contriver of this business.

—But is my brother here?

Syrus. Not he. (Sulkily.)

Dem. I’m thinking

Where I shall seek him.

Syrus. I know where he is:

But I’ll not tell.

Dem. How, Sirrah?

Syrus. Even so.

Dem. I’ll break your head.

Syrus. I can not tell the name

Of him he’s gone to, but I know the place.

Dem. Well, where’s the place?

Syrus. D’ye know the Portico

Just by the market, down this way? (Pointing.)

Dem. I do.

Syrus. Go through that lane.

Dem. That lane’s no thoroughfare.

Syrus. Aye, very true:

No more it is, Sir.—What a fool I am!

I was mistaken—You must go quite back

Into the portico; and after all,

This is the nearest and the safest way.

—D’ye know Cratinus’ house? the rich man?

Dem. Aye.

Syrus. When you’ve pass’d that, turn short upon the left.

Keep straight along that street, and when you reach

Diana’s Temple, turn upon the right.

And then, on this side of the city gate,

Just by the pond, there is a baker’s shop,

And opposite a joiner’s.—There he is.

Dem. What business has he there?

Syrus. He has bespoke

Some tables to be made with oaken legs

To stand the sun.

Dem. For you to drink upon.

Oh brave! But I lose time. I’ll after him.

Exit hastily.

Aye, go your ways! I’ll work your old shrunk shanks

As you deserve, old Drybones!—Æschinus

Loiters intolerably. Dinner’s spoil’d.

Ctesipho thinks of nothing but his girl.

’Tis time for me to look to myself too.

Faith, then I’ll in immediately; pick out

All the tid-bits, and tossing off my cups,

In lazy leisure lengthen out the day.

Exit.

Micio. I can see nothing in this matter, Hegio,

Wherein I merit so much commendation.

’Tis but my duty, to redress the wrongs

That we have caus’d: unless perhaps you took me

For one of those who, having injur’d you,

Term fair expostulation an affront;

And having first offended, are the first

To turn accusers.—I’ve not acted thus:

And is’t for this that I am thank’d?

Hegio. Ah, no;

I never thought you other than you are.

But let me beg you, Micio, go with me

To the young woman’s mother, and repeat

Yourself to her what you have just told me:

—That the suspicion, fall’n on Æschinus,

Sprung from his brother and the Music-Girl.

Micio. If you believe I ought, or think it needful,

Let’s go!

Hegio. ’Tis very kind in you: for thus

You’ll raise her spirit drooping with the load

Of grief and misery, and have perform’d

Ev’ry good office of benevolence.

But if you like it not, I’ll go myself,

And tell her the whole story.

Micio. No, I’ll go.

Hegio. ’Tis good and tender in your nature, Micio.

For they, whose fortunes are less prosperous,

Are all I know not how, the more suspicious;

And think themselves neglected and contemn’d,

Because of their distress and poverty.

Wherefore I think ’twould satisfy them more

If you would clear up this affair yourself.

Micio. What you have said is just, and very true.

Hegio. Let me conduct you in!

Micio. With all my heart.

Exeunt.

Oh torture to my mind! that this misfortune

Should come thus unexpectedly upon me!

I know not what to do, which way to turn.

Fear shakes my limbs, amazement fills my soul,

And in my breast despair shuts out all counsel.

Ah, by what means can I acquit myself?

Such a suspicion is now fallen on me;

And that too grounded on appearances.

Sostrata thinks that on my own account

I bought the Music-Girl. That’s plain enough

From the old nurse. For meeting her by chance,

As she was sent from hence to call a midwife,

I ran, and ask’d her of my Pamphila.

—“Is she in labor? are you going now

To call a midwife?”—“Go, go, Æschinus!

Away, you have deceiv’d us long enough,

Fool’d us enough with your fine promises,”

Cried she.—“What now?” says I.—“Farewell, enjoy

The girl that you’re so taken with!”—I saw

Immediately their cause of jealousy:

Yet I contain’d myself, nor would disclose

My brother’s business to a tattling gossip,

By whom the knowledge on’t might be betray’d.

—But what shall I do now? shall I confess

The girl to be my brother’s; an affair

Which should by no means be reveal’d?—But not

To dwell on that.—Perhaps they’d not disclose it.

Nay, I much doubt if they would credit it:

So many proofs concur against myself.——

I bore her off: I paid the money down;

She was brought home to me.—All this, I own,

Is my own fault. For should I not have told

My father, be it as it might, the whole?

I should, I doubt not, have obtain’d his leave

To marry Pamphila.—What indolence,

Ev’n, till this hour! now, Æschinus, awake!

—But first I’ll go and clear myself to them.

I’ll to the door. (Goes up.) Confusion! how I tremble!

How guilty like I seem when I approach

This house! (Knocks.) Holloa! within! ’Tis I;

’Tis Æschinus. Come, open somebody

The door immediately!—Who’s here? A stranger!

I’ll step aside. (Retires.)

Micio (to Sostrata, within). Do as I have told you, Sostrata.

I’ll find out Æschinus, and tell him all.

—But who knock’d at the door? (Coming forward.)

Æsch. (behind). By Heav’n, my father!

Confusion!

Micio (seeing him). Æschinus!

Æsch. What does he here? (Aside.)

Micio. Was’t you that knock’d? What, not a word! Suppose

I banter him a little. He deserves it,

For never trusting this affair to me. (Aside.)

—Why don’t you speak?

Æsch. Not I, as I remember. (Disordered.)

Micio. No, I dare say, not you: for I was wond’ring

What business could have brought you here.—He blushes.

All’s safe, I find. (Aside.)

Æsch. (recovering.) But prithee, tell me, Sir,

What brought you here?

Micio. No business of my own.

But a friend drew me hither from the Forum,

To be his advocate.

Æsch. In what?

Micio. I’ll tell you.

This house is tenanted by some poor women,

Whom, I believe, you know not;—Nay, I’m sure on’t,

For ’twas but lately they came over hither.

Æsch. Well?

Micio. A young woman and her mother.

Æsch. Well?

Micio. The father’s dead.—This friend of mine, it seems,

Being her next relation, by the law

Is forc’d to marry her.

Æsch. Confusion! (Aside.)

Micio. How?

Æsch. Nothing.—Well?—pray go on, Sir!——

Micio. He’s now come

To take her home, for he is of Miletus.

Æsch. How! take her home with him?

Micio. Yes, take her home.

Æsch. What, to Miletus?

Micio. Aye.

Æsch. Oh torture! (Aside.)— Well?

What say the women?

Micio. Why, what should they? Nothing.

Indeed the mother has devis’d a tale

About her daughter’s having had a child

By some one else, but never mentions whom:

His claim, she says, is prior; and my friend

Ought not to have her.

Æsch. Well? and did not this

Seem a sufficient reason?

Micio. No.

Æsch. No, Sir?

And shall this next relation take her off?

Micio. Aye, to be sure: why not?

Æsch. Oh barbarous, cruel!

And to speak plainly, Sir—ungenerous!

Micio. Why so?

Æsch. Why so, Sir?—What d’ye think

Will come of him, the poor unhappy youth

Who was connected with her first—who still

Loves her, perhaps, as dearly as his life;——

When he shall see her torn out of his arms,

And borne away forever?—Oh shame, shame!

Micio. Where is the shame on’t?—Who betroth’d, who gave her?

When was she married? and to whom? Where is he,

And wherefore did he wed another’s right?

Æsch. Was it for her, a girl of such an age,

To sit at home, expecting till a kinsman

Came, nobody knows whence, to marry her?

—This, Sir, it was your business to have said,

And to have dwelt on it.

Micio. Ridiculous!

Should I have pleaded against him to whom

I came an advocate?—But after all,

What’s this affair to us? or, what have we

To do with them? let’s go!—Ha! why those tears?

Æsch. Father, beseech you, hear me!

Micio. Æschinus,

I have heard all, and I know all, already:

For I do love you; wherefore all your actions

Touch me the more.

Æsch. So may you ever love me,

And so may I deserve your love, my father,

As I am sorry to have done this fault,

And am asham’d to see you!

Micio. I believe it;

For well I know you have a liberal mind:

But I’m afraid you are too negligent,

For in what city do you think you live?

You have abus’d a virgin, whom the law

Forbade your touching.—’Twas a fault, a great one;

But yet a natural failing. Many others,

Some not bad men, have often done the same.

—But after this event, can you pretend

You took the least precaution? or consider’d

What should be done, or how?—If shame forbade

Your telling me yourself, you should have found

Some other means to let me know of it.

Lost in these doubts, ten months have slipp’d away.

You have betray’d, as far as in you lay,

Yourself, the poor young woman, and your child.

What! did you think the Gods would bring about

This business in your sleep; and that your wife,

Without your stir, would be convey’d to you

Into your bed-chamber?—I would not have you

Thus negligent in other matters.—Come,

Cheer up, son! you shall wed her.

Æsch. How!

Micio. Cheer up,

I say!

Æsch. Nay, prithee, do not mock me, father!

Micio. Mock you? I? wherefore?

Æsch. I don’t know; unless

That I so much desire it may be true,

I therefore fear it more.

Micio. —Away; go home;

And pray the Gods, that you may call your wife

Away!

Æsch. How’s that? my wife? what! now?

Micio. Now.

Æsch. Now?

Micio. Ev’n now, as soon as possible.

Æsch. May all

The Gods desert me, Sir, but I do love you,

More than my eyes! 

Micio. Than her?

Æsch. As well.

Micio. That’s much.

Æsch. But where is that Milesian?

Micio. Gone:

Vanish’d: on board the ship.—But why d’ye loiter?

Æsch. Ah, Sir, you rather go, and pray the Gods;

For, being a much better man than I,

They will the sooner hear your pray’rs.

Micio. I’ll in,

To see the needful preparations made.

You, if you’re wise, do as I said.

Exit.