Scene IV
Enter at a distance Geta, running.
Geta. Confusion!
A quick thought, Geta, or you’re quite undone,
So many evils take you unprepar’d;
Which I know neither how to shun nor how
To extricate myself: for this bold stroke
Of ours can’t long be hid.
Ant. What’s this confusion?
Geta. Then I have scarce a moment’s time to think.
My master is arriv’d.
Ant. What mischief’s that?
Geta. Who, when he shall have heard it, by what art
Shall I appease his anger?—Shall I speak?
’Twill irritate him.—Hold my peace?—enrage him.——
Defend myself?—impossible?—Oh, wretch!
Now for myself in pain, now Antipho
Distracts my mind.—But him I pity most;
For him I fear; ’tis he retains me here:
For, were it not for him, I’d soon provide
For my own safety—aye, and be reveng’d
On the old graybeard—carry something off,
And show my master a light pair of heels.
Ant. What scheme to rob and run away is this?
Geta. But where shall I find Antipho? where seek him?
Phæd. He mentions you.
Ant. I know not what, but doubt
That he’s the messenger of some ill news.
Phæd. Have you your wits?
Geta. I’ll home: he’s chiefly there.
Phæd. Let’s call him back!
Ant. Holloa, you! stop!
Geta. Heyday!
Authority enough, be who you will.
Ant. Geta!
Geta (turning). The very man I wish’d to meet!
Ant. Tell us, what news?—in one word, if you can.
Geta. I’ll do it.
Ant. Speak!
Geta. This moment at the port——
Ant. My father?
Geta. Even so.
Ant. Undone!
Phæd. Heyday!
Ant. What shall I do?
Phæd. What say you? (To Geta.)
Geta. That I’ve seen
His father, Sir,—your uncle.
Ant. How shall I,
Wretch that I am! oppose this sudden evil!
Should I be so unhappy to be torn
From thee, my Phanium, life’s not worth my care.
Geta. Since that’s the case then, Antipho, you ought
To be the more upon your guard.
Ant. Alas!
I’m not myself.
Geta. But now you should be most so, Antipho.
For if your father should discern your fear,
He’ll think you conscious of a fault.
Phæd. That’s true.
Ant. I can not help it, nor seem otherwise.
Geta. How would you manage in worse difficulties?
Ant. Since I’m not equal to bear this, to those
I should be more unequal.
Geta. This is nothing.
Pooh, Phædria, let him go! why waste our time?
I will be gone. (Going.)
Phæd. And I. (Going.)
Ant. Nay, prithee, stay!
What if I should dissemble?—Will that do?
Endeavoring to assume another air.
Geta. Ridiculous!
Ant. Nay, look at me! will that
Suffice?
Geta. Not it.
Ant. Or this?
Geta. Almost.
Ant. Or this?
Geta. Aye! now you’ve hit it. Do but stick to that;
Answer him boldly; give him hit for dash,
Nor let him bear you down with angry words.
Ant. I understand you.
Geta. “Forc’d”—“against your will”——
“By law”—“by sentence of the court”—d’ye take me?
—But what old gentleman is that I see
Turning the corner of the street?
Ant. ’Tis he.
I dare not face him. (Going.)
At t’other end o’ th’ street?
Ant. ’Tis he himself.
I dare not face him. (Going.)
Geta. Ah! what is’t you do?
Where d’ye run, Antipho! stay, stay, I say.
Ant. I know myself and my offense too well:
To you, then, I commend my life and love.
Exit.