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 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._
[Changes:
_Harper_ So I but have him with me.
_Colman 1768_ So I but keep him with me.
_Harper_ And that you'd rather hazard life, and wealth, Than part from him; ah, Menedemus, what A window to debauchery you'll open!
Nay, life itself will grow a burden to you; _Colman 1768_ That you had rather throw away your life, And waste your whole estate, than part with him, Ah, what a window to debauchery You'll open, Menedemus! Such a one, As will embitter even life itself;
_Harper_ Too much the influence of joy or sorrow?
_Colman 1768_ The influence of joy or grief too nearly?]
SCENE III.
_Enter SYRUS at another part of the stage._
SYRUS (_to himself._) This way, or that way, or some way or other!
For money must be had, and th' old man trick'd.
CHREM. (_overbearing._) Was I deceiv'd in thinking they were at it?
That slave of Clinia's, it should seem, is dull, And so our Syrus has the part assign'd him.
SYRUS. Who's there (_seeing CHREMES_). Undone if he has overheard me.
(_Aside._)
CHREM. Syrus.
SYRUS. Sir!
CHREM. What now?
SYRUS. Nothing.--But I wonder To see you up so early in the morning, Who drank so freely yesterday.
CHREM. Not much.
SYRUS. Not much? You have, Sir, as the proverb goes, The old age of an eagle.
CHREM. Ah!
SYRUS. A pleasant, Good sort of girl, this wench of Clinia's.
CHREM. Aye, so she seems.
SYRUS. And handsome.
CHREM. Well enough.
SYRUS. Not like the maids of old, but passable, As girls go now: nor am I much amaz'd That Clinia dotes upon her. But he has, Alas, poor lad! a miserable, close, Dry, covetous, curmudgeon to his father: Our neighbor here; d'ye know him?--Yet, as if He did not roll in riches, his poor son Was forc'd to run away for very want.
D'ye know this story?
CHREM. Do I know it? Aye.
A scoundrel! should be horse-whipp'd.
SYRUS. Who?
CHREM. That slave Of Clinia's----
SYRUS. Troth, I trembled for you, Syrus! (_Aside._)
CHREM. Who suffer'd this.
SYRUS. Why what should he have done?
CHREM. What?--have devis'd expedients, contriv'd schemes, To raise the cash for the young gentleman To make his mistress presents; and have done A kindness to th' old hunks against his will.
SYRUS. You jest.
CHREM. Not I: it was his duty, Syrus.
SYRUS. How's this? why prithee then, d'ye praise those slaves, Who trick their masters?
CHREM. Yes upon occasion.
SYRUS. Mighty fine, truly!
CHREM. Why, it oft prevents A great deal of uneasiness: for instance, This Clinia, Menedemus' only son, Would never have elop'd.
SYRUS. I can not tell Whether he says all this in jest or earnest; But it gives fresh encouragement to me. (_Aside._)
CHREM. And now what is't the blockhead waits for, Syrus?
Is't till his master runs away again, When he perceives himself no longer able To bear with the expenses of his mistress?
Has he no plot upon th' old gentleman?
SYRUS. He's a poor creature.
CHREM. But it is your part, For Clinia's sake, to lend a helping hand.
SYRUS. Why, that indeed I easily can do, If you command me; for I know which way.
CHREM. I take you at your word.
SYRUS. I'll make it good.
CHREM. Do so.