Scene II
Enter Clinia at another part of the stage.
Clin. Henceforward, fate, do with me what thou wilt!
Such is my joy, so full and absolute,
I can not know vexation. From this hour
To you, my father, I resign myself,
Content to be more frugal than you wish!
Syrus (overhearing). ’Tis just as I suppos’d. The girl’s acknowledged;
His raptures speak it so.— (Going up.) I’m overjoyed
That things have happen’d to your wish.
Clin. O Syrus!
Have you then heard it too?
Syrus. Undoubtedly.
Syrus. I heard it? Aye:
I, who was present at the very time!
Clin. Was ever any thing so lucky?
Syrus. Nothing.
Clin. Now, Heav’n so help me, I rejoice at this
On her account much rather than my own,
Her, whom I know worthy the highest honors.
Syrus. No doubt on’t.—But now, Clinia, hold a while!
Give me a moment’s hearing in my turn.
For your friend’s business must be thought of now,
And well secur’d, lest our old gentleman
Suspect about the wench.
Clin. O Jupiter! (In raptures.)
Syrus. Peace! (Impatiently.)
Clin. My Antiphila shall be my wife.
Syrus. And will you interrupt me?
Clin. Oh, my Syrus,
What can I do! I’m overjoy’d. Bear with me.
Syrus. Troth so I do.
Clin. We’re happy, as the Gods.
Syrus. I lose my labor on you.
Clin. Speak; I hear.
Syrus. Aye, but you don’t attend.
Clin. I’m all attention.
Syrus. I say then, Clinia, that your friend’s affairs
Must be attended to, and well secur’d:
For if you now depart abruptly from us,
And leave the wench upon our hands, my master
Will instantly discover she belongs
To Clitipho. But if you take her off,
It will remain, as still it is, a secret.
Clin. But, Syrus, this is flatly opposite
To what I most devoutly wish, my marriage,
For with what face shall I accost my father?
D’ye understand me?
Syrus. Aye.
Clin. What can I say?
What reason can I give him?
Syrus. Tell no lie.
Speak the plain truth.
Clin. How?
Syrus. Every syllable.
Tell him your passion for Antiphila;
Tell him you wish to marry her, and tell him,
Bacchis belongs to Clitipho.
Clin. ’Tis well,
In reason, and may easily be done:
And then besides you’d have me win my father,
To keep it hid from your old gentleman.
Syrus. No; rather to prevail on him, to go
And tell him the whole truth immediately.
Clin. How? are you mad? or drunk? You’ll be the ruin
Of Clitipho: for how can he be safe?
Eh, Sirrah!
Syrus. That’s my master-piece: this plot
Is my chief glory, and I’m proud to think
I have such force, such power of cunning in me,
As to be able to deceive them both,
By speaking the plain truth: that when your father
Tells Chremes, Bacchis is his own son’s mistress,
He sha’n’t believe it.
Clin. But that way again
You blast my hopes of marriage: for while Chremes
Supposes her my mistress, he’ll not grant
His daughter to me. You, perhaps, don’t care,
So you provide for him, what comes of me.
Syrus. Why, plague! d’ye think I’d have you counterfeit
Forever? but a day, to give me time
To bubble Chremes of the money.—Peace!
Not an hour more.
Clin. Is that sufficient for you?
But then, suppose his father find it out!
Syrus. Suppose, as some folks say, the sky should fall!
Clin. Still I’m afraid.
Syrus. Afraid indeed, as if
It was not in your pow’r, whene’er you pleas’d,
To clear yourself, and tell the whole affair.
Clin. Well, well, let Bacchis be brought over then!
Syrus. Well said; and here she comes.