University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Enter BOY.
Whene'er the gods decree a boy should be
A slave to a procurer, and especially
If he be basely treated too, it must
Be own'd, they heap misfortune and distress,
Great as I feel this present at my heart,
So wretched, so deplorable my servitude.
By miseries small and great of every kind
I am hemm'd in; nor can I find a friend
Who'll love me well enough to find the means
To keep me clean, or treat me with good cheer.
This is the birth-day of the pandar here,
And every mother's son from high to low
Who sends him not a present on this day,
He swears with threats, shall pay for it to-morrow.
Troth, in my case, I know not what to do.
Nor can I do like others who are able.
Unless I send some present here to-day,
I'm beaten like a fuller's cloth to-morrow.
Alas! even now how much am I an infant
In this affair? And how much, wretched I
Still dread this man—If any make a present
That feels more heavy in the hand than mine,
However hard and grudgingly they pay for it,
I seem, as 'twere, to grind my teeth with fear.
But I must keep my tongue within my teeth,
For here my master comes—With him a cook.

SCENE II.

Enter BALLIO the procurer, and Cook.
Bal.
The cook-market is foolishly so call'd,
The thief-market's a better name by half.
For were I on my oath, I could not find
A greater rascal than this cook I bring.
A prating, bragging, silly worthless fellow.
Nay, on this very account it is, that Orcus
Would not admit him into his dominions,
That he might still remain on earth a cook,
On purpose to dress suppers for the dead:
For only he can dress them to their liking—

Cook.
If as you think you speak, why did you hire me?

Bal.
Out of necessity; there was no other.
But if you are the cook you fain would pass for,
Say, why was you left sitting in the market?

Cook.
I'll tell you—'Tis man's avarice alone
Makes me the cook you say I am; and not
My want of genius—

Bal.
Ha! how prove you that?

Cook.
I'll tell you—When a person comes to market
To hire a cook—he don't enquire for one
Who is the best, and must be paid most wages.
They always hire the cheapest and the worst:
Hence have I sat all day in the market-place.
Those rascals follow any for a drachma—
I never let myself for less than gold.
I make not out like other cooks my supper,
Who in their dishes, serve up season'd meadows,
As if their guests would go to grass like oxen.
Those herbs they season; but with other herbs,
Fennel and garlick, coriander; orach,
Sorrel, blite, beet and cabbage—and then temper it
With a full pound of lazerwort—With these
They bray the roguish mustard, such as makes
The grinder's eyes before they've done, drop tears.
E'en let such fellows cater for themselves!
They serve their sauces with no proper seasoning,
But with vile herbs, that eat the bowels up.
Hence 'tis that men live here so short a life,
Stuffing their guts with herbs, as formidable
To hear, as eat—Such as the beasts won't touch,
They eat themselves—

Bal.
And what do you? Are yours
Such heavenly sauces, as prolong men's lives,
That you're so sharp on others?

Cook.
You may say so,
And boldly too; for with my cookery,
A man may live two hundred years at least.
For when I have into my saucepan put
My cicilendrum or my sipolindrum,
My mace, or my sancaptis, strait the saucepan
Heats of itself. For king Neptune's herds this sauce;
For those of earth, I serve my cicimandrum,
My happalopsides, or cataractria.

Bal.
May Jupiter and all the gods confound you,
With all your sauces, and your lies together!

Cook.
Let me go on.

Bal.
Go on then, and be hang'd—

Cook.
Soon as my saucepans all begin to boil,
I strait uncover them; when the fragrant odour
Mounts down unto the skies, and Jupiter
Sups on it every night—

Bal.
How? mounts down?

Cook.
A slip that of the tongue.

Bal.
How's that?

Cook.
I would
Have said, mounts up.

Bal.
But when you dress no victuals,
On what does Jupiter sup then?

Cook.
O, then,
He goes to bed without his supper.

Bal.
Rascal!
Go and be hang'd! Is it for this I give you
A piece a day?

Cook.
I'm an expensive cook
I own: but for the wages I receive,
You find my business done—

Bal.
Yes, that of stealing—

Cook.
Expect you e'er to find a cook that has not
The talons of an eagle or a kite?

Bal.
Expect you to be hired for a cook,
And not to have your nails par'd close, before
You set about your work?—You, boy of mine,
[to the boy.
See you put every thing out of the way.
Your eye have upon his; and as he looks,
Look you; and when he goes, go you along.
If he lift up a hand, why, lift up yours:
If he but take his own, why, let him take it;
If ought of ours, hold fast on t'other side—
Moves he? do you move—Stands he still, stand you.
Stoops he? stoop you. Besides this pupil here,
I shall have private spies.

Cook.
Oh! never fear.

Bal.
Must I not fear, that bring you with me home?

Cook.
The soup that I shall make for you to-day,
Shall make you young and lively as old Pelias
Just issuing from Medea's kettle; for
As she, by compositions and enchantments,
Made an old man come out a young one, I
Will do the same by you.

Bal.
O, ho! You are turn'd
Enchanter too?

Cook.
By Pollux' temple! no:
I'm rather man's preserver.

Bal.
Stay, and tell me
What shall I give to teach me one receipt?

Cook.
What's that?

Bal.
Why, a receipt to hinder you
From pilfering.

Cook.
If you confide in me,
Two drachma's; if you doubt, not e'en a mina.
But say, the supper you're to give to-night,
Is it to friends or enemies?

Bal.
To friends,
You may be sure.

Cook.
I would you'd giv'n your supper
To enemies and not to friends: for I
Shall such a relish give to this day's feast,
'Twill make them eat their fingers.

Bal.
Then, by Hercules!
Before you give it to my guests, I beg you
Tast it yourself, and give it to your gentry,
That you may first gnaw your own thievish fingers.

Cook.
Perhaps you don't believe a word I say.

Bal.
Come, ben't impertinent. You prate too much.
I like it not—There is my house, go in,
And get the supper ready in all hast.

Cook.
You and your guests get to your couches quick,
The supper's spoil'd already.

Bal.
See that rogue,
That scullion's under-lick-dish to his master:
I know not, troth! which to look after first,
Such thieves are in my house. A rogue there is
Here at next door. My neighbour at the Forum,
Father of Calidorus, here was warning me,
To have an eye on Pseudolus his servant,
For that he's been upon the hunt, if possible,
How he this day may cheat me of this girl;
And that to him he had engag'd his word,
By stratagem to rob me of Phœnicium—
Now will I in, and give my people charge
That not a soul give credit to this Pseudolus.

[Exit.