University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Enter LYSITELES.
What misery to myself do I create,
On many things thus inward ruminating!
I teaze me, fret me, weary out my mind,
Which schools me, as it were, like a strict master.
It is not plain, nor have I weigh'd sufficiently,
What life 'twere best to follow, whether rather
Attend to thrift, or yield me up to Love.
I cannot tell, which is most pleasurable,
Nor am I rightly satisfied.—Suppose
We try both fairly:—in the cause I'll be
Both judge and culprit.—Good! it likes me well,
I'll do so.—First then we'll discourse of Love.—
Love only seeks to draw into his toils
The easy, willing natures; these he courts,
Subtly cajoles, and seeks occasions apt
To win them to him. Love's a gentle flatterer,
An hook that grapples hearts, an errant fibber,
A dainty mouth'd, a nice, a greedy niggard,
A filcher of affections, pimp to those
That play at bo-peep, skulk in hiding holes;
A pryer into secrets,—last, a beggar.
He that is stricken with sharp-pointed kisses,
Will find his substance in a trice decay.
“My sweet, my honey, if you love me, if
“You have the spirit, won't you give me? do now.”
Then instantly the gudgeon—“Eh! I will,
“My eyes, my own dear eyes,—aye, that and more,
“If you require it.”—Thus she strikes the fool,
For more and more still asking. Nor is this
Sufficient; something more must still be added,
For entertainments, feastings and carousings.
Grants she the favour of a night? She brings
Her whole retinue with her, such a train
Of waiting-women, such a tribe of dressers,
Minstrels, and lacqueys, all such huge devourers,
Such wasters of his substance, that the lover
From his extreme complacence is undone.
When I reflect within me, and consider,
How cheap they hold one who is little worth,
Love, get thee gone—I like thee not—Away—
I hold no converse with thee.—Although sweet
His feastings and carousings, Love has yet
A smatch of bitter to create disgust.
Love shuns the noisy bustle of the bar,
Drives off relations, and oft banishes
Himself from his own sight. There's no one, who
Would wooe him for companion. Thousand ways
Love should be held a stranger, kept at distance,
Wholly abstain'd from. Hapless, into Love
Who plunges headlong; greater his destruction,
Than to have leapt down toppling from a rock.—
Love, get thee gone then,—I divorce thee from me,
Nor ever be thou friend of mine.—Go, torture
Those that are bound unto thee.—I am bent
Henceforward to apply my mind to thrift,
Although the toil be great. Hence good men gather
Gain, esteem, credit, reputation: This
The price of virtue.—'Tis my choice to herd
With good men rather than the vain and dissolute.

SCENE II.

Enter PHILTO.
Phil.
Where has he ta'en himself?

Lys.
I'm here, my father.
Command me what you will, nor shall there be
In me reluctance. Think not that I skulk,
Or hide me from your sight.

Phil.
You will do well,
And like your other actions, to observe
Due reverence to your father. O my son!
I would not have you with the profligate
Hold any conversation, in the forum,
Or in the street. The manners of this age
I know: Bad men would fain corrupt the good,
And make them like themselves: Our evil manners
Confound, disorder every thing: The greedy,
The envious, turn what's sacred to profane,
The public good to private interest.—
They gape for gain, like the parch'd earth for showers.—
This grieves me; this torments me; night and day
I ring the same peal, bidding you beware.
These plunderers only can refrain their hands
From what they cannot touch. The word else with them
Is, touch and take. O but to see these villainies,
Draws tears from me; to think my life prolong'd
To such a race!—O that I had but follow'd
Those that are gone before me!—Our vile moderns
Commend the ancient manners, but withal
Defile what they commend. O then, my son,
Be not enamour'd of their arts, not taint
Your disposition with them. Live like me,
Following our antient manners. Do what I
Advise you. For these vile and filthy manners,
Which good men must dishonour, I disdain them.

Lys.
Sir, from my youth up to my present age
I've bound me to your precepts and commands.
Though free from birth and breeding, to your bidding
I hold me still a slave, and deem it just
My will should bend to yours.

Phil.
Suppose a youth
To combat with his will, whether 'twere best
To be, as best his will should think, or rather
Such as his parents and relations wish him:
If the will masters him, all's over with him,
By it he'll be enslav'd: but if his will
He masters, while he lives he shall be stiled
A conqueror of conquerors. If your will
You've vanquish'd, you not vanquish'd by your will,
You've reason to rejoice. 'Tis better far
You should be as you should be, than be such as
Your will would have you. Fairer their repute,
The will who conquer, than those conquer'd by it.

Lys.
This prudence, as a buckler to my youth,
I ever had: I studiously forbore
To go, where vice was plotted as in council,
To roam the streets at mid-night, to defraud
Another of his right, or to beget
Vexation, Sir, to you, who are my father.
I've ever kept your precepts as a rule
To regulate my conduct.

Phil.
Wherefore this?
What's right you've acted for yourself, not me:
My days are almost past: 'Tis your concern then.
That man's an upright man, who don't repent him,
That he is upright; he, who seeks alone
Self-satisfaction, merits not that title:
The man, that thinks but meanly of himself,
Shews there's a just and honest nature in him.
Still follow up good actions with good actions,
Heap'd on each other.

Lys.
For this purpose, father,
I would entreat a certain favour of you.

Phil.
What is it? tell me, for I long to grant it.

Lys.
There is a youth here of a noble family,
My friend, and of my years, who his affairs
Too heedlessly has manag'd, too unthinkingly.
I'd fain do him a kindness, if that you
Refuse not.

Phil.
What, from your own purse?

Lys.
From mine.
For what is your's is mine, and mine is your's.

Phil.
Is he in want?

Lys.
In want.

Phil.
Had he a fortune?

Lys.
He had.

Phil.
How lost he it? at sea? by commerce?
In the slave trade? by traffick?

Lys.
None of these.

Phil.
How then?

Lys.
In sooth by gentle living, Sir:
Something too much in pleasure has he squander'd.

Phil.
In troth you speak of him as of an intimate:
A man forsooth, whose fortunes were not shatter'd
By any good demeanour;—he's a friend,
A fine one for you, with such qualities!

Lys.
I would relieve the wants of one distrest,
One that is free from fault.

Phil.
The beggar's thanks
He scarce deserves, who gives him wherewithal
To buy him meat and drink; for what is given
Is lost, and only serves to lengthen out
A life of misery.—I say not this,
For that I would not do most willingly
What you desire, but in the way of caution,
That I might shew you, not to pity others,
So as yourself to others may become
An object too of pity.

Lys.
'Twere a shame
To leave, not help him in adversity.

Phil.
'Twere better shame than blame, though both are spelt
With the same letters.

Lys.
Thanks be to the Gods,
Our ancestors wise care, and your's, my father,
We have an handsome fortune: then to shew
A kindness to a friend, is not to blame;
'Twere a shame rather not to do it.

Phil.
Tell me,—
If from a sum how large soever you
Substract a part, remains there more or less?

Lys.
Less surely. But you know, what people cry
To niggardly curmudgeons.—“May you have not
That which you have, and have what you have not,—
Misfortune; since you will not let yourself,
Or others have enjoyment.”

Phil.
Right;—but verily,
He that has nothing, son, is fit for nothing.

Lys.
Thanks to the Gods, Sir, we have wherewithal
T'enjoy ourselves, and spare for friendly uses.

Phil.
I can deny you nothing you would have.
Whose wants would you relieve?—Come, tell your father:
Speak boldly to me.

Lys.
'Tis young Lesbonicus,
Charmides' son, who lives here at this house.

Phil.
He, who has eat up all he had, and more!

Lys.
Do not reproach him, Sir: since many things
Befall a man, both wish'd for, and unwish'd.

Phil.
You are mistaken, son, nor judge aright
In what you say. A wise man is the maker
Of his own fortune, and except he prove
A bungling workman, little can befall him,
Which he would wish to change.

Lys.
Sure, in this kind
Of workmanship much labour there doth need
One's life to frame and fashion with repute.
But Lesbonicus, Sir, is young,—consider.

Phil.
'Tis not by years that wisdom is acquired,
But waits on disposition. Wisdom is
The food of age, which lends to wisdom relish.
But say, what would you give him?

Lys.
Nothing, Sir,
So you permit me from his hands to accept
A gift most rare.

Phil.
What, thus relieve his wants?

Lys.
This very way.

Phil.
I fain would learn the manner.

Lys.
I'll tell you.—Know you not, what family
He's of?

Phil.
I know: of good and reputable.

Lys.
He has a grown up sister: her, my father,
I would fain take to wife.

Phil.
Without a portion?

Lys.
Without a portion.

Phil.
Marry her?

Lys.
'Tis so;—
And you no loser. Thus you will bestow
A special favour on him, neither can you
By any other means assist him more.

Phil.
And shall I suffer you to take a wife
Without a portion?

Lys.
You must suffer me;
And by it to our family you'll add
Increase of honour.

Phil.
I could here pour forth
A budget-full of sayings, learned saws,
And antique stories, which my age would warrant;
But since I see your purpose is to add
New friendships, new connections to our house,
E'en though I were averse to the alliance,
I'd give you my permission,—ask her, marry her.

Lys.
The Gods preserve you to me!—Do but add
To this one favour more.

Phil.
That one, what is it?

Lys.
I'll tell you: go to him yourself, yourself
Procure her for me.

Phil.
Hey-day! I a pimp?

Lys.
'Twill sooner be transacted, and by you
Done firm: one word in this affair from you
Will weigh more than an hundred words from me.

Phil.
I'm willing to oblige you.—I'll about it.

Lys.
My most sweet father!—here he lives—this house—
His name is Lesbonicus—do this thing
Effectually.—I'll wait for you at home.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

PHILTO
alone.
This is not for the best, nor do I think
'Tis right, but yet 'tis better than if worse.
I have this consolation to my mind:—
Who thwarts the inclinations of his son
In every point, save those in which himself
Alone has satisfaction, is a fool,
Plagues his own soul, nor is the better for it;
And stirring up a storm that's out of season,
Makes the hoar winter of old age more sharp.
But the door opens, whither I was going;
And Lesbonicus, he himself comes forth
Most aptly with his servant. I'll aloof.

[Retires at a distance.

SCENE IV.

Enter LESBONICUS and STASIMUS.
'Tis under fifteen days, since forty Minæ
You did receive from Callicles for this house.
Is it not, Stasimus, as I say?

Stas.
Methinks
On due consideration I remember,
That so it is.

Les.
What has been done with them?

Stas.
Eat, drank, anointed, washed away in bagnios,
Cooks, butchers, poulterers, fishmongers, confectioners,
Perfumers, have devour'd them;—gone as soon,
As is a grain of corn thrown to an ant.

Les.
Why, all these must have cost less than six Minæ.

Stas.
But what you gave your mistresses?

Les.
I count
Six more for that.

Stas.
What—I have cheated?

Les.
Oh,
In that indeed my reckoning is most heavy.

Stas.
You cannot eat your cake and have it too;—
Unless you think your money is immortal.
The fool too late, his substance eaten up,
Reckons the cost.

Les.
Th'account is not apparent.

Stas.
Th'account's apparent, but the money's gone.
You did receive of Callicles forty Minæ;
He by assignment had your house.

Les.
'Tis true.

Phil.
(Overhearing.)
Our neighbour then, it seems, has sold his house:
And when his father from abroad returns,
He must e'en lodge him in the street, except
He creep into the belly of his son.

Stas.
Count to the Banker due Olympic Drachms
A thousand.

Les.
I engag'd for.

Stas.
Threw away,
Say rather.—You stood bound for a wild spark,
Who, you declared, was rich.

Les.
'Tis true, I did so.

Stas.
'Tis true, the money's gone.

Les.
It is indeed.—
I saw him in distress, and pitied him.

Stas.
For others you've compassion, for yourself
You've neither shame nor pity.

Phil.
(At a distance.)
It is time
I should make up to him.

Les.
Is not that Philto,
Who's coming hither? Sure, 'tis he himself.

Stas.
I wish he were my slave with all his property.

Phil.
To Lesbonicus and to Stasimus,
The master and the servant, Philto wishes
All happiness and health.

Les.
Heav'n grant you, Philto,
All that you wish and want! How does your son?

Phil.
You've his best wishes.

Les.
He has mine,—'tis mutual.

Stas.
Best wishes! what avails that phrase, unless
Best services attend them?—I may wish
To have my liberty, but wish in vain;
My master, to be frugal,—all in vain.

Phil.
My son has sent me to you, to propose
A bond of friendship 'twixt you, and alliance.
Your sister he would marry, and I hold
The same opinion, wish it.

Les.
Oh, I know you;—
Your cruel mockery I perceive:—because
You have an ample and right good estate,
You come to flout and jest at my misfortunes.

Phil.
As I'm a man,—as you are,—the great God
So love me,—as I came not to deride:—
Nor do I think you worthy.—What I said,
Is true:—My son beg'd me to ask for him
Your sister, Sir, in marriage.

Les.
My affairs
How they are circumstanc'd, I can't be ignorant:—
My fortunes are not to be match'd with yours.—
Then seek another, and more fair alliance.

Stas.
Art mad? art in your senses? to reject
This proffer'd match?—Why you have found a friend,
Will help you at a pinch.

Les.
Away, you rascal!

Stas.
Were I to budge a foot, you'd bid me stay.

Les.
(To Phil.)
Would you ought else, Sir?—You have got my answer.

Phil.
I trust that you will shew to me more favour
Than now I have experienc'd. Or in word
Or deed to play the trifler, would ill suit
One of my years.

Stas.
Faith, what he says is true.

Les.
Add but another word, I'll tear your eyes out.

Stas.
Do—I will speak, though blind.

Phil.
You tell me now,
We are not on a footing; that your means
Don't equal ours.

Les.
I say so.

Phil.
What of that?—
If you were present at a public feast,
And haply some great man was plac'd beside you,
Of the choice cates serv'd up in heaps before him
Would you not taste, but at the table rather
Sit dinnerless, because he neighbour'd you?

Les.
Sure I should eat, if he forbade me not.

Stas.
And I, ev'n if he did;—so cram myself,
I'd stuff out both my cheeks:—I'd seize upon
The daintiest bits before him, nor give way to him
In matters that concern'd my very being.
At table no one should be shy or mannerly,
Where all things are at stake, divine and human.

Phil.
Faith, what you say is right.

Stas.
I'll tell you fairly.
Your great man if I meet, I make way for him,
Give him the wall, shew him respect, but where
The belly is concern'd, I will not yield
An inch,—unless he box me into breeding.
To me a feast is an inheritance
Without incumbrance.

Phil.
Ever bear in mind
This maxim, Lesbonicus. The best policy
Is to be perfect in all good;—if that
We can't attain to, to be next to perfect.
The match that I propose for your consent,
Why will you not agree to?—What are riches?—
The Gods alone are rich: to them alone
Is wealth and pow'r:—but we poor mortal men,
When that the soul, which is the salt of life,
Keeping our bodies from corruption, leaves us,
At Acheron shall be counted all alike,
The beggar and the wealthiest.

Stas.
(To Phil.)
I believe,
Your wealth you'll carry with you, that, when dead,
You may behave there as your name imports.

Phil.
That you may know it is not wealth we seek,
But value your alliance, I do ask
Your sister for my son without a portion.
Success attend it!—Is't agreed?—Why silent?

Stas.
O ye immortal Gods, a rare proposal!

Phil.
Do but say, done.

Stas.
Why how now? when he could
Get nothing by the bargain, he could say
Done first; and now he's sure to win, he's silent.

Les.
That you esteem me worthy your alliance,
I am most thankful; but although my folly
Has cast me down thus low, I've yet a farm
Near to the town here: this will I bestow
Upon my sister for her portion; this
Is all, through my imprudence and my folly
That I have left me now besides my life.

Phil.
I want no portion.

Les.
I'm resolv'd to give it.

Stas.
Dear master, would you part then with our nurse,
That feeds us? our support? think what you're doing.
How shall we eat in future?

Les.
Hold your tongue.
Am I accountable to you?

Stas.
We're ruin'd
Past all redemption, if I don't invent
Some flam.—I have it.—Philto, a word with you.

Phil.
What would you?

Stas.
Step aside this way a little.

Phil.
I will. (They retire.)


Stas.
The secret I shall now unfold
Let not my master know, nor any other.

Phil.
Me you may safely trust.

Stas.
By Gods and men
I do conjure you, let not this same farm
Come into your possession, or your son's.
The reason will I tell.

Phil.
I fain would hear it.

Stas.
First then, whene'er the land is plough'd, the oxen
Ev'ry fifth furrow drop down dead.

Phil.
Fye on it!

Stas.
A passage down to Acheron's in our field.
The grapes grow mouldy as they hang, before
They can be gather'd.

Les.
He is, I suppose,
Persuading him:—though he's an errant rogue,
To me he's not unfaithful.

Stas.
Hear what follows.
When that the harvest promises most fair,
They gather in thrice less than what was sown.

Phil.
Nay!—then methinks it were a proper place
For men to sow their wild oats, where they would not
Spring up.

Stas.
There never was a person yet,
That ever own'd this farm, but his affairs
Did turn out bad:—some ran away, some died,
Some hang'd themselves.—Why, there's my master now,
To what sad straits is he reduc'd!

Phil.
O keep me
Far from this farm!

Stas.
You'd have more cause to say so,
Were you to hear the whole.—There's not a tree,
But has been blasted with the lightning: more—
The hogs are eat up with the mange; the sheep
Pine with the rot, all scabby as this hand:
And no man can live there six months together,
No, not a Syrian, though they are most hardy,
The Influenza is to all so fatal.

Phil.
I do believe it true: but the Campanians
The Syrians far outgo in hardiness.—
This farm is a fit spot, as you've described it,
Wherein to place bad men: And as they tell us,
That in those islands stil'd The Fortunate
Assemble th'upright, and the virtuous livers,
So should the wicked here be thrust together,
Since 'tis of such a nature.

Stas.
'Tis th'abode
Of misery. But, without more words,—whatever
Evil you'd search for, you might find it here.

Phil.
You may go seek it there, or where you will.

Stas.
Be cautious how you tell what I have told you.

Phil.
You've told it to no blabber.

Stas.
Now my master
Would gladly part with it, could he but find
A gudgeon to his purpose.

Phil.
I'll have none of it.

Stas.
If you are wise indeed, you will not have it.
(Aside.)
So—I have frighten'd this old hunks most rarely
From taking of this farm: if that were gone,
We've nothing to subsist on.

Phil.
Lesbonicus,
I now return to you.

Les.
I prithee tell me,
What has he said?

Phil.
Think you?—The fellow wants
His liberty, but has not wherewithal
To purchase it.

Les.
And I too would be rich,
But cannot.

Stas.
(Aside.)
Once you might have been, if then
You had chose it; now you cannot, since you've nothing.

Les.
What was it you was muttering to yourself?

Stas.
Concerning what you said.—You had been rich,
If it had been your pleasure heretofore;
'Tis now too late to wish it.

Phil.
For this portion,
I can determine nothing; with my son
You'll settle it, and to your liking.—Well then,—
Your sister I request for him in marriage.
Success attend it! What? still scrupulous!

Les.
Well, since you'll have it so, heav'ns blessing on it!
I here betroth her to him.

Phil.
Never did
A father joy more in a new-born son,
Than I, when you brought forth that word, betroth.

Stas.
Heav'ns prosper this agreement!

Phil.
'Tis my prayer.

Les.
Go, Stasimus, to my sister, and relate
To Callicles this transaction.

Stas.
I'll be gone.

Les.
Congratulate my sister.

Stas.
To be sure!

Phil.
Go with me in, sir, where this compact we'll
Confirm, and for the nuptials fix a day.

Les.
(to Stas.)
Do as I bade you.—I'll be here this instant.—
Tell Callicles to meet me.—

Stas.
Prithee go!

Les.
To fix the portion.—

Stas.
Go.—

Lys.
For I'm resolv'd
A portion she shall have.

Stas.
Nay, pray be gone!

Les.
Nor will I suffer her to lose—

Stas.
Go, go!—

Les.
By my neglect.—

Stas.
Be gone now.—

Les.
'Tis but just
For my offences.—

Stas.
Will you not be gone?

Les.
That I alone should suffer.—

Stas.
Go—be gone.

Les.
My father! shall I never see you more?

Stas.
Go, get thee gone! be gone! be gone! be gone!

[Exeunt Lesbonicus and Philto.

SCENE V.

STASIMUS
alone.
At length I have prevail'd on him to go.
Ye gods! from wrongly we shall manage right,
If we but keep this farm: and yet I have
Some doubt concerning what will be the issue.
If it be once made over to another,
'Tis over then with me: I must abroad,
Carry a knapsack, helmet, sword, and target:
He'll fly the city when the wedding's o'er,
And will enlist him somewhere for a soldier,
In Asia or Cilicia.—But I'll go,
Where master bade me; though I hate this house,
Ever since he, who bought it, turn'd us out.