University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Enter DEMÆNETUS and LIBANUS.
LIBANUS.
As you would wish your only son should happily,
And in good health survive you, I conjure you
By your old age, and her you stand in fear of,
Your wife, if you've this day play'd false with me,
Then may your wife survive you a whole age;
And whilst you live together, may she be
Your plague, till she has worried you to death.

Dem.
Since I'm so solemnly conjur'd, I see
I must speak out, and answer all your questions—
I dare not but discover all to you.
Be quick then, tell me what you'd wish to know,
That I may tell you all I know myself—

Lib.
Answer me seriously to what I ask;
Take care too, that you tell me not a lie.

Dem.
What is it you would ask?

Lib.
You'd not conduct me
To that same place where one stone grinds another.

Dem.
What is't you mean? Where is it in the world
That place is to be found?

Lib.
Where wicked men
Dine on coarse country food, and weep too over it.

Dem.
What is't you mean? I own I cannot tell,
Where should that country be, where wicked men
Dine on coarse country food, and weep too over it.

Lib.
Why, in club island, and in that of rattle-chain;
Where your dead oxen gore your living men.

Dem.
O ho! I take you now—Perhaps you mean
The place where meal is made.

Lib.
Not I, indeed;
I say not so, nor would I have it said so.
By Hercules! I would not; and I beg of you
That you'd spit out your words.

Dem.
It shall be done:
I will obey you.

[coughing and spitting.
Lib.
Come then, hawk away.

Dem.
What! more?

Lib.
Ev'n to the bottom of your entrails.

Dem.
Still more?

Lib.
Yes more—

Dem.
How far would'st have me go?

Lib.
Hawk till you hawk to death; 'tis what I wish.

Dem.
Take heed you draw not evil on your head.

Lib.
To your own death? No, no, I meant your wife's.

Dem.
Good! for that word I'll free you from all fear.

Lib.
The gods grant all you wish!

Dem.
Do me one favour:
Why should I ask you, what I know already?
Why threaten you, for that you've not inform'd me
All that you know yourself of this affair?
Or why should I be angry with my son,
As other fathers us'd to be?

Lib.
What's this?

Dem.
I know my son's in love here with a girl,
She lives hard by, her name's Philenium.
Libanus, is it not so?

Lib.
In troth you're right;
'Tis even so—But your son's very ill,

Dem.
What's his disorder?

Lib.
He is very ill.
Because he has not wherewithal to keep
His word.

Dem.
And are you one then who assists him
In his amours?

Lib.
I am, in troth, and then
There is another, our Leonida.

Dem.
Well done, by Hercules! Why this will gain
My favour. Yet you do not know, my Libanus,
The humour of my wife.

Lib.
You feel it first:
But we can give a guess.

Dem.
I own, she's troublesome,
And never to be pleas'd.

Lib.
That long ago
I knew; and that or e'er you told me so.

Dem.
Each father, Libanus, if to me he'd hearken,
Would ever let his son have his own way—
For by this means the son would be affectionate
The more, and would become his father's friend.
This is the thing I aim at. I desire
To be belov'd by mine: I'd act myself
Like my own father; who to pleasure me,
In a ship-master's dress, by stratagem
From a procurer stole a girl I lov'd.
Nor at his time of life, advanc'd in years,
Was he asham'd impostures to contrive,
And purchase with good turns his son's affection.
His conduct I'm determin'd now to imitate.
This very day did my son, Argyrippus,
Ask me to give him a supply of money,
Wherewith to forward his amours: in this
I'm willing to oblige him: am desirous
To forward his amours; that, as a father
He may sincerely love me—Tho' his mother
Holds a tight rein o'er every step he takes,
Keeps him with strictness, nor allows him liberty,
As fathers, not as mothers use to do.
But I do no such thing—especially
Since he has thought me worthy to be made
The confidant of his affairs; I ought
To shew regard to such a disposition;
When, as 'tis right a modest son should do,
He makes his application to his father.
Yes, I must doubtless find the money for him
To carry to his mistress.—

Lib.
[aside.]
I'm amaz'd
At this harangue, and fearful how 'twill end.

Dem.
For on the whole, I know my son's in love.

Lib.
You wish for that, which to my certain knowledge
You wish in vain for—Saurea, the slave
Your wife brought with her on her marriage, has
More money in her hands than you have, sir.

Dem.
In fact I've got a portion with my wife,
And for that portion giv'n up my authority.
In short, I'll tell you now what I would have.
My son now stands in need of twenty minæ.
You must procure them for him.

Lib.
And from whom?

Dem.
Why cheat me of them.

Lib.
Now you talk quite idly.
'Tis just as if you bad me take some garments
From one who is quite naked—What! cheat you?
Come on—and without wings fly off—Cheat you!
You, who yourself have nothing in your power,
Unless your wife you've cheated out of somewhat.

Dem.
Me, or my wife, or Saurea here her slave,
Which ever, and whatever way you can,
Defraud, impose upon, or rob—I promise you,
You shan't be hurt, if you this day procure it.

Lib.
You may as well go bid me fish in air,
Hunt with a javelin on the open sea,
And there to spread my toils—

Dem.
Well, if you please,
Your fellow slave Leonida take with you.
Devise, invent, frame some expedient, see
My son the money has this day, to give
His mistress—

Lib.
What are you about, Demænetus?
What if I fall into an ambuscade?
If taken by the foe, you will redeem me?

Dem.
I will—

Lib.
Then you may follow other game:
Whate'er you please—

Dem.
If then no more with me,
I'll to the forum.

Lib.
Go—What! and no faster?

Dem.
Yet one word more.

Lib.
Your pleasure, sir?

Dem.
Why this.
If I should want you, where shall you be found?

Lib.
Just where I please, and where my business calls me.
Troth, from this time I shall not stand in fear
Of any man; nor is there any one
Can hurt me, since from what you've just now said,
Your mind you have disclos'd—In this affair
If I succeed, I shan't think much of you.
I'm going where I thought of; and shall now
Employ my thoughts on what I have to do.

Dem.
Do ye mind? I'm to be found with Archibulus
The banker.

Lib.
What, i'th'forum?

Dem.
There, if need.

Lib.
Enough—I shall remember.

[Exit.
Dem.
'Tis impossible
To find a rogue more cunning or more sly
Than this same slave of mine—Nor one that's harder
To guard against—At the same time, if ought
You'd have well look'd to, you've nought else to do
Than trust him with it—He had rather die
Wretched, than not accomplish what he has promis'd.
That he'll procure this money for my son,
I know as well, as that I've in my hand
This walking-stick—But why do I delay
My going to the forum as intended?
I'll go, and there I'll wait him at the banker's.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Enter ARGYRIPPUS from CLEÆRETA's house.
Arg.
Is't thus I'm serv'd?—What! turn me out of doors!
[to Cleæreta within.
This my reward for all the good I've done you!
To those who have deserved well of you,
You do what's ill; to those who have ill deserv'd
You do what good you can—But you'll repent it.
I'll now go straitway to the magistrate,
And give in all your names—You and your daughter
I'll charge with capital offences; whores,
Destruction, common bane of youth. The sea
Is not the sea when 'tis compar'd to you;
You're a most dangerous sea indeed—At sea
I found a fortune, here I've squander'd it.
I now find out that all my kindnesses
And all my presents are of no effect,
And have been given to ingrates: henceforth
I'll do you all the mischief in my power,
Which will be giving you but your deserts.
By Pollux! I'll reduce you to the state
You first arose from, extreme poverty.
By Pollux' temple, I will make you know
Who now you are, and what thing once you was,
Before I visited your daughter, and
Bestow'd my love upon her: on coarse bread
You liv'd, and all your cloathing was but rags:
And if you'd these, you had to thank the gods for 'em.
Now things are better, and you live at ease,
You will not own that 'tis to me you owe
The obligation: like a savage beast
Have you behav'd: but I shall make you tame
With hunger. Leave that matter but to me.
I am not angry with my dear Philenium.
She has merited no ill from me. She did
But what you order'd, and obey'd your will:
You are her mother and her mistress too.
I will revenge myself on you alone,
Treat you according to your worth, and give you
To th'utmost what you have deserv'd from me.
But see, the jade! she does not think me worthy
To be approach'd or spoke to, nor will deign
To deprecate my anger. But see there
Th'enticer's coming out. Before the door
Since I am not allow'd to enter in,
I'll tell her what I have to say to her.

SCENE III.

Enter CLEÆRETA.
Cle.
If any purchaser should offer me
For every word you've said, a Philippean,
I would not part with them—Whate'er you've said
Wrongfully of us, is good gold and silver.
Your heart's lock'd up with us, and Cupid keeps
The key—Haste then, begone this instant.
Hoist all the sail you can, and ply your oars.
The farther you get out to sea, the sooner
The increasing surge will bring you back to port.

Arg.
[aside.]
By Pollux! that inspector of the customs
Shall not be paid his duty. [to her.]
Yes, I'll treat you
As you've deserv'd, and as my ruin'd fortune
Shall dictate to me: You who have excluded me
Your house, when I have not deserv'd from you
Such treatment.

Cle.
Yes, you tell us so in words,
But you'll not make it good by deeds.

Arg.
'Twas I,
'Twas I alone, who brought you from obscurity,
Redeem'd you from your poverty; when I
Alone conferr'd my favours on you, you
Could scarce return acknowledgement enough.

Cle.
And still you shall continue so, provided
You always give me every thing I ask.

Arg.
When you are never satisfied, what bounds
To giving?—You have scarce receiv'd a favour,
But you are ready to ask something more.

Cle.
What bounds? Are you e'er satisfied yourself
With love, or with enjoyment of my daughter?
No sooner have you sent her home to me,
But you directly send for her again.

Arg.
In truth I've given whate'er you wanted of me.

Cle.
And I have ever sent to you your girl.
I've given you a requital, like for like;
And what I gave was in return for money.

Arg.
You use me ill.

Cle.
Why blame me, if I do
My duty? For 'twas never feign'd in story,
Painted in pictures, or in poems written,
That when a bawd shews favour to a lover,
It was for aught but for her own advantage.

Arg.
'Twould be but right to give me some indulgence,
That I may last the longer.

Cle.
What! not know,
The bawd that is indulgent to a lover,
Shews small indulgence to herself—A lover
Is to a bawd just like a fish; which if
Not fresh, is good for nothing. When 'tis fresh
'Tis full of juice, 'tis sweet; which ever way,
Or in whatever manner 'tis you season it,
Or stew'd or roasted; which way e'er you will,
You turn it often—Just so a new lover,
To give is ever ready, ever willing
To have something ask'd of him—For when he takes
From a full bag, he knows not what he gives,
Nor thinks on what he's out of pocket by it.
He thinks on nothing but to make himself
Both pleasing to his mistress and to me;
The footman, household servants, and the maidens;
Nay, a good lover strokes my lap-dog, that
Whene'er he sees him, he may wag his tail.
I tell you truth—'Tis right for every one
To be attentive to his proper interest.

Arg.
Yes, to my cost I've learn'd that this is true.

Cle.
By Castor's temple, if you had to give,
You'd tell another tale; but now you've nothing,
You think to have your mistress by abusing me.

Arg.
'Tis not my way.

Cle.
Troth, neither is it mine,
To let you take away the girl for nothing.
But this I'll do in pity to your youth,
And from the high regard which I have for you,
Considering too, that you have paid attention
To our advantage, more than your own fame,
If you will give me down upon the nail
Two silver talents for your honour's sake,
This night you shall possess your mistress gratis—

Arg.
But, what if I have not the money?

Cle.
Why
'Twill be worse for you; she shall go elsewhere.

Arg.
What is become of that already given you?

Cle.
'Tis spent—Was it not so, and I still had it,
The girl should be sent to you; and I'd ask
For nothing—True, I purchase not with money
Daylight nor water, sun nor moon, nor night:
What else we want, we buy for ready money.
If from the baker's we want bread, or wine
From out the vaults, if we send ready money
We have the goods—And thus it is with us.
My hands have always eyes—Within their palm
They never credit ought but what they see.
'Tis an old saying, money down's the thing.
Do you attend to me?—I'll say no more.

Arg.
Now I'm undone, you talk another language:
Far different this from that which once you talk'd,
When I was wont to make you presents: then
You sooth'd me, kindly spake to me, and bless'd me—
Your very house receiv'd me with a smile,
Whene'er I came to you. Oft you told me,
And told Philenium too the same, you lov'd
Me only, and preferr'd me to all others.
When I had ought to give, you then were ever
Like two young pigeons hanging on my lips:
Your likings all depended upon mine:
Whate'er I bad you do, or chose to have done,
You did: whatever I forbad the doing,
Or chose should not be done, with utmost care
You'd shun to do, nor dar'd to set about it.
Now whether I would have ought done or not,
Is no concern of yours, you wicked creatures—

Cle.
Know you not this?—Our trade is very like
The trade of fowling—When he has pitch'd upon
A place, the fowler throws down corn; the birds
Approach it. He who'd seek for gain, must be
At some expence. The birds oft eat the corn:
But once they're catch'd, they reimburse the fowler.
Just so it is with us. Our house, the place;
The fowler, I; the corn, the courtezan;
The bed is the decoy; the birds, the lovers.
They become tame by frequent salutations,
By speaking soft and kindly, mutual kisses,
With pleasant, sweet discoursing intermix'd.
If he should touch her bosom, then it is
Advantage to the fowler. Farther, if
He has ta'en a kiss, he's caught without a net.
You who so oft have made the experiment,
Have you forgot this?

Arg.
There you are to blame
To turn away a scholar half instructed.

Cle.
Come back again, when you have got the money,
With confidence; at present, get you gone.

Arg.
Stay, stay and hear me—What am I to give you
To have her to myself the whole year round?

Cle.
To have her to yourself? Why, twenty minæ.
On this condition tho', that if another
Should bring the money first, farewell to you.

Arg.
But I, before you go, have something more
To say to you—

Cle.
Well then, say what you please.

Arg.
I'm not entirely ruin'd, I've yet left
Something to lose—I've wherewithal to give you
What you demand; but on my own conditions,
That I the whole year have possession of her,
And she admit no other man whatever.

Cle.
The servants shall be all made eunuchs, if
'Tis your desire—Bring with you a deed,
Containing what is now agreed between us.
Enjoin whate'er you please, make your own bargain;
Bring but the money with you, all the rest
I shall with ease come into—A bawd's doors,
Like those of a collector of the customs,
If you bring with you wherewithal, are open:
If you have nought to give, why then they're shut.

[Exit.
Arg.
Unless I can procure these twenty minæ
I am undone—And if I pay it not,
I'm ruin'd horse and foot—I'll hie me now
Strait to the forum, try my utmost force—
I'll beg, I'll earnestly entreat each friend
I meet, accost both good and bad—And if
I can't without, must take it up at interest.

[Exit.