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._
[Changes:
_Harper_ That I, and under my own roof, had been _Colman 1768_ That I, and under my own roof, might be]
SCENE IV.
_CLITIPHO alone._
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.
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.
_Enter CLINIA._
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!
SCENE II.
_Enter SYRUS and DROMO, conversing at a distance._
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!