 | The Miser |  |
SCENE VII.
Enter STROBILUS.Strob.
Come, come along, thou muckworm.
Lyc.
Whom d'ye speak to?
Strob.
Euclio.
Lyc.
He's no where here, nor any other.
Strob.
Nay, but he is.
Lyc.
(looking about)
I see him not.—Where is he?
Strob.
He's here.
Lyc.
Here? where?
Strob.
I've hold of him; he's here.
(Pointing to the Pot)
All that he has of life and soul, is here,—
Lodg'd in this Pot;—the rest is but his shadow,
This is his substance; his heart's blood, his vitals;
'Tis Euclio altogether.
Lyc.
Peace, you rascal;
Give me the Pot.
Strob.
Suppose you sacrifice him
Upon his daughter's wedding-day.—
Lyc.
No trifling.—
Strob.
You will at least invite me to a share,
246
Lyc.
Give it me,
I say, this very instant; or I'll make
A sacrifice of you.
Strob.
You'll give me then
My freedom, as you promis'd?
Lyc.
Never doubt me.
Strob.
Here—take it.
(Giving the Pot.
Lyc.
I'll restore it to old Euclio,
Who will adore me as his Joy, his Pleasure,
His Jove Protector, his supreme Salvation.—
I'll call him.—Euclio!—Hoa!—Come forth here.—Euclio!
Eucl.
(within)
Who calls a wretch like me?
Strob.
Your Joy, your Pleasure,
Your Jove Protector, your supreme Salvation.
Lyc.
I bring you tidings of your treasure, Euclio.
| The Miser | |