University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—The fields in the vicinity of Thebes.
(Enter, on one side, Abas and Clonius; and on the other, Protus and Doris.)
Abas.

Now, where's your wager, Clonius?
A good morrow to you, Protus, and to your lovely wife, who
is this morning doubly lovely, for that she hath bestowed on
me two skins of ruby wine.

Protus.

Aye, truly! as how?

Doris.

Not I, in sooth. He doth but jest.

Abas.

In sooth, he doth not jest, fair mistress. Yet, in a
sort, he doth jest; and yet he doth not.

Protus.

Come,—here's a riddle—doth—doth not—and
doth; who reads it first?

Clonius.

Oh,—that will I.

Abas.

Nay, boy;—that wilt thou not; unless, indeed, thy
wit have a longer reach than thine eyesight.

(Epaminondas enters behind.)
Clonius
(aside).

Conceited old ass! I wish the wine may
choke him.

Doris.

Why, he is young enough to be your grandson;
sure he should have the better sight of the two.

Abas.

A raw conclusion, young mistress; yet natural
enough too, for a young woman to think the worse of an old
man, and the better of a young one. But there's no exception
without a rule—as I heard the noble Pelopidas say t'other day
in a question about the tusk-teeth of a wild boar, though I
don't quite bear in mind what the matter was. But, as I was
saying—no rule without a deception; and so it is that, of all

the youngsters in Thebes, there is not one with such a thorough-piercing
eye as mine—for a distance-object, you mark me,
—for, as to things at hand, I make no particular boast.

Epaminondas
(aside).

No such remarkable peculiarity, my
honest friend! I know hundreds who can distinctly see the
failings of their fellows afar off—though they should be no
larger than an acorn;—yet are blind to their own faults, though
they would overtop the oak.

Abas
(looking out).

I marvel that I see nought yet of the
Spartan soldiers.

Protus.

But what of the wine, master?—tell us that.

Clonius.

Why, see you, as you were coming on—

Abas
(putting his hand on the mouth of Clonius).

Why!
wilt thou now? Thou know'st well enough I tell a tale better
than any man in Thebes;—and that has been said a hundred
times.

Clonius
(aside).

I've heard you say it, nobody else.

Abas.

Let the winner tell of a battle;—not him that lost it.

Clonius
(aside).

The old wide-mouthed villain! I'll put a
viper into his wine.

Abas.

And now, mine honest Protus, will I show to thee
how it is that I did not jest,—yet, in a sort, did jest;—and yet
again did no such matter:—how it is that your sweet-faced
young wife—whose progenitors Jupiter bless!—did, albeit she
deny it, bestow on me the foresaid two skins of ruby wine.
Also will I make apparent to you how that, for a clear-spying
eye, this youth doth in no way match my age, and also—
but by the great Apollo! there is the noble Epaminondas,—
the bravest of our philosophers, and the wisest of our soldiers,
as the valiant Pelopidas hath ofttimes said. Wait awhile,—
for I must have speech with him touching great concerns. I
will return anon, and discourse further with you.

(He walks to Epaminondas, who sits on the root of a tree, a book in his hand.)
Clonius.

A meddlesome—prating—overbearing—conceited
old fool! I owe him money that I can't just now pay him,

and so he plays the lord over me. He would tell me how
many paces I should take during the day;—and count out my
breathings—and regulate the number of my heart-strokes!

Protus.

But what's this about the wine-skins?

Clonius.

The noisy—prating old swaggerer! He's for ever
raising a thunder-storm inside a soap-bubble. 'Tis just this. As
you came tow'rds us, and when we could barely see you through
the mist,—‘Bless us!’ said I; ‘here comes Protus with his
sister! what brings them to Thebes so early?’ ‘'Tis not his
sister,’ replies old Backstitch; ‘'tis his wife.’ Now I,—not
knowing you were married,—said again 'twas your sister; and he,
thereat, bets me two skins of wine—which I have lost—and
there's the whole matter. But what make you at Thebes so
early this fresh morning?

Protus.

Oh! just to see the procession to the feast, and
to shake hands with some old friends. My wife has relations
here whom she has not seen since her wedding. You come, I
suppose, to take a look at the Spartan troops yonder?

Clonius.

We do. How far are they off?

Protus.

Why, you might see them now but for the fog.
They may be perhaps a thousand paces off. They have been
marching since peep of morning, and are just going to put up
their tents.

Clonius.

What may their number be? Hast heard, or canst
give any guess?

Protus.

I have not heard, and truly have no guess. Were
they corn-sheaves instead of soldiers, perhaps I might have
better chance to count them. Let the tailor stick to his needle,
and the weaver to his loom—and we then may have good cloth,
well sewn: and so good morning to you, sir; and Ceres send
us a bountiful harvest.

Clonius.

Good-morning to you, friend; good-morning, pretty
mistress, and a happy day, though I have been a loser by those
light-treading ankles of yours.

Doris.

Good-morning, sir; and may your wine be good,
though I shall be no better for it.

[Exeunt Protus and Doris.
Clonius.

What does the wench mean? No matter! I am
sure I shall be no better for it; but I have a good mind that
somebody else shall be the worse.—Ah! you infernal old
rascal! you everlasting—babbling—wide-chapped tyrant! I'll
have done with you;—I'll defy you. This day is the last of
your reign. Sooner than be your drudge, and your butt any
longer, I'll go to prison and curse you.—He is coming away.
I'll not wait for him.—How the old knave will froth at the
mouth! Ha—ha—ha!

[Exit.
Epaminondas.

Then be it as you say. So, or in any other
fashion that affects not singularity. I love not these discourses.
—For the slave you spake of;—rebuke her if you will, but chastise
her not. The whip is an odious instrument, even when
used to the brute animal alone;—when applied by man to
torture his fellow, it becomes as a fire that consumes both the
victim, and him that throws it on the pile.

Abas.

Your wisdom speaks most wisely; and I will rebuke
the slave. For the fashion of the—

Epam.

My good friend, no more of that, I pray you. If in
aught I can render you service, say it:—if not, I have matter
for reflection here, and would gladly be left at leisure.

Abas.

Of a surety, my lord! and I humbly take my leave,
and wish you a good-morning.

Epam.

Friend, farewell.

(He returns to his seat.)
Abas.

And now, my honest Protus, will I read to thee the
riddle I—Hey! how's this? gone off? singular ill manners
—even in a clown;—but Clonius gone too! the ungrateful
fellow—whom nothing but my foolish kindness keeps from the
society of a jail! As I am a true Theban! there he walks with
as much majesty as if his body were his own property. Holla!—
holla—holla—I say! By the glorious Apollo! he heeds me no
more than if I were a wood-louse! A pestilent—ungrateful
scoundrel!—Within this hour shalt thou see the dungeon-grate
for thy prospect; and thy music shall be the clink of fetters.
A horrible—heartless—thankless—impudent fellow!

[Exit, towards the city.
Epam.
Ye gods! of what strange stuff have ye made man!
Yet some o't's excellent.

Pelop.
(without).
Lead back my horse;
And gently—for this run hath tried him hard.
(He enters slowly, still talking to the grooms without.)
And see that Nimrod's wound be tended well:—
I never saw a better mettled dog.
Here—take my boar-spear too; and let the smith
Secure the rivets.—Ha! my placid friend!
Kind soldier,—brave philosopher,—good-morrow!

Epam.
The same to thee, Pelopidas. Look here.
Dost see yon man-shaped thing, cleaving the mist?
'Tis an old tailor,—an anatomy
That cuts out cloth,—and holds discourse of sleeves,
Shreds, remnants, hems, and tucks—backstitch, and gussets;
Yet to himself he's a divinity.—
Jove rules not with a lordlier hand the fates
Of helpless man, than doth that shadowy thing—
Now melted in the unsubstantial fog—
The lives and actions of whom Fortune puts
Into his grasp. ‘I have a slave’—quoth he,—
‘A female slave—a disobedient wretch:—
But, if to scourge her deep, or put to death,—
I am in doubt:—will you resolve me, sir?
For you are wise.’

Pelop.
A most dispassioned lord!
And what was the offence?

Epam.
His slippers brought
Ofttimes uncleaned;—his mantle badly brushed;—
His needles lost;—his goose ta'en from the fire;—
His witty sayings mock'd behind his back,—
And twenty such abominable things,
The least a crime for death.

Pelop.
And what said you?

Epam.
‘Doubtless,’ said I—‘these are most serious things!
Slay her;—and do it by some curious death,
Shall mark to after-times her heinous sins,
And your rare vengeance. Then erect a tomb,
And on it have engraven the whole tale.
Say, how a much-respected man of Thebes—
A tailor, old and wealthy—had a slave;—
There give your name and hers—a female slave,
Of such, and such offences guilty:—there
Note down—‘your slippers dirty—needles lost—
Jokes laugh'd at,’—note them all;—let times to come
See all the villainies;—and then conclude,
‘This horrid wretch was justly flogged to death,—
Roasted—or boil'd,’—just as your whim shall be,
‘A warning to the disobedient.’

Pelop.
How took the tailor that?

Epam.
With most grave face,
At first,—like one who listens with quick ear
To some wise judgment, whereto he assents.
Now would he nod, and twinkle his small eye;
Now lift his furrow'd brow;—now turn aside,
With head aslant hard-gazing on the ground,
Filled with prodigious greatness;—but, erelong,
The light came o'er him, and he saw, asham'd,
His judgment-throne changed to a tailor's board,
His sceptre to a yard. Enough of him!—
I wish there were not thousands such as he!—
Where hast thou been? and what hath brought thee here?

Pelop.
What! hast not heard the Spartans are at hand?

Epam.
No, truly!—how?—what Spartans?

Pelop.
Can it be?
Or dost thou want more tailors for thy wit?

Epam.
In very sooth I nothing know of this.

Pelop.
Why I—an hour back—and three leagues away,
Hard in pursuit of a most noble boar,—
A monster bristled like a porcupine,
Tusk'd like an elephant,—and with a—

Epam.
Stay!—
No more of that! I join not in the chase,
Nor hear of it with pleasure. To the rest.

Pelop.
Well, 'twas a noble brute! But, as I said,
Thus distant, thus employed,—I hear the news
Which thou, an idler, and upon the spot,
Art ignorant of.

Epam.
So chances it sometimes.
For Rumour's couriers do not always hold
The broad, straight highway;—but, like drunken knaves,
Oft turn aside to where a welcome waits.
Yet less an idler do I count myself,
Discoursing with divine Pythagoras,— (pointing to his book),

Or to these solemn trees, or cloud-swept hills,
Putting mute questionings—albeit my limbs
And muscles move not—than Pelopidas,
Hot from the chase,—and reeking with the spoil.
Think'st thou the mind hath not its exercise?
Aye! and far nobler game to chase! The spoil
Far richer, and not bloody!

Pelop.
There are birds
That shun the day, and go abroad at night;
Others, whose wings are spread with the first dawn,
And folded at the sunset;—some that fly,
With dull, slow pennon, ever nigh to earth,—
And others that seem couriers 'twixt the stars,
So pierce they the blue sky;—some sweetly sing
All the night through,—and some but in the day;—
In winter some,—and some sing not at all:—
These in the hedge, or low grass, build their nests;
And those in rocks that overhang the clouds.
Even of such various natures are we men:
Spendthrifts, and misers; fools, philosophers;
Idlers, and busy; soldiers, men of peace;
Cautious, and headlong; fierce as raging flame,
And quiet as the night-breeze, that scarce moves
The down on the young redbreast where he sleeps.

Epam.
Go on—I like thy rare philosophy
Far better than thy boar-hunts.

Pelop.
Nay—'tis done.
The nightingale can never change his note
With the hoarse raven—nor the gloomy owl
Bathe in the sun-stream with the fire-eyed eagle;—
Nor more can we our proper natures change.
Thou'rt a philosopher;—a soldier I—
A hunter—and a wrestler—

Epam.
Nay—but hold!—
Thou art a soldier, and a good one too,—
And passing brave,—for thou dost beat thyself,—
Talking philosophy by th' hour, to prove
Thou'rt no philosopher.

Pelop.
Then be it so!
Men bear with patience blows they give themselves;
Yet, if their neighbour do but wag a straw
To threat them, swords must kiss,—and wounds must ope
Their bloody lips to answer it.—
But see!
The thirsty sun, who all the night hath chased
The darkness that still flies as fast away,
Drinks up the fog. Would I had such a throat!
I've had a chase almost as hot as his—
I'd quench my drouth with the great Indian sea,
And show its depths to daylight.

Epam.
Those are arms
That twinkle so in this dim sunshine. Look!

Pelop.
In truth they are. I see spear-heads,—and glance
Of polish'd breastplates.

Epam.
I spy helmets too;—
And now they put up tents; and I can see
Scarlet apparel.—'Tis the force you spake of.
What make they here? Hath it been well considered?
What say the Archons, and the Senate to it?

Pelop.
All men know of it,—and consider it
According to their humours. Of the Senate,
Some blame, and some approve. The Archons, too,
In this, as in all other matters, jar;
Ismenias, and our party like it not:—
Proud Leontidas, and his purse-gorg'd crew,
The haughty Aristocracy, commend.

Epam.
Who leads them on? and whither are they bound?

Pelop.
What! hast thou drunk of Lethe, that thy brain
Doth hold no figures of the past? Bethink thee!
When—'tis not yet a month,—for yon worn moon,
So thin and sickly, was then two nights old—
Eudamidas, with his two thousand, pass'd
Against th' Olynthians—

Epam.
Ha! I know it all.
These, then, are the fresh troops whom Phœbidas
To reinforce them leads.

Pelop.
Rather, I think,
This is the army's self,—of which the first
Was but a handful;—the thin end o' th' wedge;
Keeping the place till this, the broader back,
Were ready for the stroke.

Epam.
I like it not!
This Phœbidas is a vain, shallow man:
Will swallow flattery as the glutton shark
Gulps the small fry by shoals. Nought comes amiss;
No compliment too vast;—none too minute.
Call him a god,—he rubs his hands, and smiles:—
Commend his perfumes, or his glossy hair,—
His toothpick, or his sandals;—still he smiles:—
Or say Achilles had not such a thigh,—
Or Helen such a lapdog;—'tis the same—
He smiles, and takes it all.—'Tis dangerous
To trust such men with power. Who comes this way?

Pelop.
Ha! 'tis a worthy man,—a friend of mine,
And shall be your friend. I've oft promis'd him
To bring him to you. But, for a rare piece
Of Nature's workmanship, look to the dame
That leans upon him; 'tis his new-wed wife;
The daughter of rich Thrasymed of Corinth.

Epam.
As well as from this distance I may see,
She seems, indeed, a jewel for a crown.
With what a grace she bends her to that flower!

Pelop.
And rises now like—oh! like nothing else
But her own loveliness. Yet 'tis no flower
That she has gather'd—but some stone or gem:—
See how she holds it in her delicate hand
Betwixt the sunlight and her sunny eye.

Epam.
Will they come hither, think you?

Pelop.
So it seem'd
As they advanc'd; if not, we'll seek them there.

Epam.
I never saw a shape so like to what
The poets in their verses make us dream of.

Pelop.
Oh! she is more surpassing beautiful!
Hast thou not seen a willow, by the brink
Of some bright stream when the warm south-west comes
To toy, and whisper with it;—how each leaf,
And long, down-drooping branch waves gracefully:—
Bends inward now,—as from the breeze it shrank
For that it kiss'd too lovingly:—now wafts
Sidelong its feathery hands, as it would say
Farewell—farewell:—then downward drops its leaves
Into the dimpling stream,—and, lifting them,
Seems as 'twould rain a shower of crystal tears,
For that the fickle zephyr had gone by.

Epam.
I' faith, a rare and most pathetic tree!

Pelop.
Now, with a proud humility, bows down
Its regal top, like to a jewel'd queen
That courtesies lowly to her throned lord,—
And now, lets go its tresses to the breeze,
Like joyous flags that wave on festivals. . . .

Epam.
I see one such on the Cadmea now.
But, in Apollo's name, what means it all?

Pelop.
Oh! you perplex me!—for my meaning, that,
I' faith I scarce can tell;—but, yester-even,
I rode from Copæ, coasting by the lake;—
The waters look'd so beautiful, beneath
The gawdy colour'd sky, I could not leave them.

Epam.
It was indeed a gorgeous firmament!

Pelop.
You saw it? Well, just where the river runs
Out of the lake, there is a willow-tree
Such as I pictured. The last sun-tints burn'd
Upon it;—and the evening wind so moved
Its delicate branches, that I stood to gaze,
Saying within myself: ‘Sure never thing
Moved with such perfect gracefulness!’—And then,
I know not why—this lady's image came
Into my thoughts:—so now, beholding her,
I think of it again.

Epam.
And is this all?
The little hillock had a mountain's bulk,
Seen through your mistiness. Yet so it is:—
The beautiful doth conjure up its like
Ofttimes in things that do seem opposite
As heaven to earth. A little flower shall—
Sprinkled with shining points—bring to your mind
The starry firmament; a grassy field,
Waving before the breeze on a May morn,
Shall make you think on ocean's plumbless deeps.
Yet look not, gentle friend, too oft on things
That shall recall that lady to your thought.
Sweet-looking fruit may have a bitter taste,
Touch'd by unholy lips.

Pelop.
Oh Jupiter!
May not one gaze at some bright-twinkling star,
Nor wish to steal it?—She's my dear friend's wife,
And so fenc'd round with rock of adamant;
But, were such fruit my own,—by heavens! methinks
I'd swallow it at once.

Epam.
Soft—soft—they come.

(Enter Androclides and Thulia.)
Pelop.
Good-morrow, Androclides;—and, sweet Thulia,
A thousand, and ten thousand happy morrows.
I've promis'd oft to bring you to the shine
Of our bright Theban sun.—Epaminondas,
This is my good friend Androclides;—this
The goddess who to young Anchises here
Hath given her hand;—although, on further thought,
'Twas not the fashion with that dame to wed,
And these have been to th' altar—so, at once,
I'll name her as the lady Thulia—
The wife of this same blushing friend of mine.

Epam.
They're both most welcome. Often have I heard,
In the mad talk of this our hunting friend,
Of your true worth, and shall esteem me rich,
Possessing such a friendship.—Your fair lady
Oft makes companions of the morning hours,
If that her cheek tell truth.

Andro.
She's nought but truth!

Thulia.
What! Androclides! You turn'd flatterer too?
I've heard you say such things were but base coin
With a fair impress;—nay, you call'd! them trash,
Such as the merchants give to savage men
Of Ind;—expecting, for their worthless toys,
Gold-dust, or costly jewels:—knaves, and fools,
You call'd the parties—ha!—what say you, sir?

Andro.
That you're a little knave, to use those arms
Upon your friends, were given you 'gainst your foes.

Pelop.
Hark, Androclides—I've a rare conceit
Just hatch'd, and it must forth. We'll call thy wife,
For that she is of Corinth,—and to thee,—
A plain, strong pillar—the chief ornament—
We'll call her thy Corinthian Capital.—
What say you, lady?—Shall it not be so?

Thulia.
The Capital is nought without the shaft
That gives it eminence; nor would I wish
For better name than Androclides' wife.
But, good my lord, jest on, if so you will.

Andro.
Look! here's the man who pass'd us even now
With such vehement gesture:—sure he's mad!

Epam.
Ha! 'tis our wrathful tailor.—Honest friend,
Whither away so fast?

(Abas enters with a Bailiff bearing off Clonius.)
Abas.

I'll hear nothing. You are an ungrateful and insolent
villain! Ask the iron bars shortly, and you'll find them as soon
to be bended as I am. If you don't like to go to prison,—why,
pay the money—that's all.

Clonius
(holding back).

Wait but a moment while I speak
to these gentlemen;—they may perhaps assist me.

Abas.

Drag him along, bailiff: a horrible miscreant—gentlemen
assist you indeed! Drag him along;—and if you'll put the
heavier fetters upon him, why, your fee shall be the heavier.
Thankless! saucy! proud-stomach'd!—Ha! my good lords! I
did not see you. Bailiff, let the youth rest a moment;—we have
time enough,—and such offices should be gently administer'd—
As I've heard you often say, my lord—for you are always kind.

Epam.
So are not you. Fair maxims in the head,
With a foul heart,—are but the golden spots
Upon a deadly serpent.—What's your debt? (to Clonius).


Clonius.

A hundred drachms, my lord;—I undertook to
pay it upon the death of my father—for it was a debt of his.

Epam.

Who was your father?

Clonius.

He was of Thebes—and his name was Mydon.
He was slain at the battle of Coronæa.

Epam.
At Coronæa?

Abas.
Yes, my lord, I—

Epam.
Peace!
Now,—Androclides—this hath happen'd well
To put the seal to our new covenant
Of friendship. You are wealthy—I am poor;
Nor, but for such a purpose, would be rich,
Save in the treasures of philosophy.
Discharge this youth, and take him to your home.
I'm sure he's honest, and will serve you well.
I read his heart.

Andro.
More joyfully I give,
Than he can take his freedom,—for I am
The greater gainer—gaining the proud right
To call myself Epaminondas' friend.
What is your debt?

Clonius.
A hundred drachms, my lord.

Andro.
Here are two hundred. Satisfy this man,
And keep the rest as earnest of your hire,
If you incline to serve me.

Clonius.
Oh! my lord!
I'd serve you, were't to swallow fire, or hack
My limbs to pieces. While I live all thoughts
Shall be towards your pleasure. And—kind sir!—

Epam.
Nay!—throw me not again the coin I gave:—
I did but utter a few quiet words
That cost me nothing. Let them rest.

Clonius.
Oh! heavens!

Pelop.
So!—I'm discharged from office,—and you, sir,
Are the new treasurer—

Thulia.
No! you shall be
Joint partners in this holy ministry;
And I your humble servitor. How say you?

Pelop.
Lady—your slightest censures are strong laws
That bind rebellious thoughts. But now, my friend,
Where are you bound?

Andro.
Our sauntering had no aim
But the fresh morning air; yet now, we hope,
'Twill turn to noble purpose:—our new friend
Will grace our house with you:—

Thulia.
If that be ‘nay’—
To bring forth which you have purs'd up your brow,—
I do forbid it.—'Tis an ugly knave
That stabs young friendships often to their death—
I will not hear it.

Epam.
'Twas indeed a nay,
That I had fashioned,—for my purpose was
To make the fields this day my study room:
But to that nay I'll say another nay,
And go along with you.

Andro.
We thank you, sir;
And hope our entertainments shall approve
The love we bear you.—You will go with us?

Pelop.
Ev'n as you will. I came to see yon camp:
But I spy others going the same way—
Whom I were loth to meet—Let them pass by.

(Enter Leontidas,—Archias,—and Philip.)
Leon.
You look hard at us, gentlemen, this morning.
Have you been anger'd somewhat at the sight
Of our good friends i' th' camp?

Pelop.
Who looks not hard
If a foul scaly dragon pass him by?—

Leon.
Hot-headed youth! beware the dragon's teeth!
His eyes are on thee, and thy factious crew.—
Farewell—farewell.

Pelop.
Foul dragon, take thou heed!
Thine eyes are charmless,—and thy venom'd teeth
May be pluck'd out. Hence to thy friends, black snake!
The air is poison'd round thee.

Leon.
Mad-brained boy!
Thou'lt hear of this anon. Come friends—away!
[Exit Leon.

Archias
(to Philip).
Didst ever see a thing so beautiful?
Whence is she?—what's her name?

Philip.
I'll tell thee all
As we go on.—Good Democrats—adieu!

[Exeunt Philip and Archias.
Pelop.
Foul Oligarchs—to hell!—
(To Epaminondas)
Give me a word.

Abas
(aside).

I'm glad of this; and will cut close, and try to
save good cloth by 't.—What a tiger this boar-hunter is, being
roused! And yet I think the dragon shall bite his nails for

him. But, till then, I must stroke his paws, and pat him on
the back:—and, maybe, I shall come in for a share of his skin
after he is killed. Now, good youth (to Clonius),
thou'lt not
forget to say to thy master what I have expounded unto thee:
—and be sure I'll not forget my promise to thee:—and—more
than that—but come this way, and I'll let thee further into the
matter.

Thulia.
Oh! my dear lord!—these rough encounters shake
My nerves almost to death.—What dark, stern man
Is that your friend so bitterly reviled?—

Andro.
'Tis Leontidas:—and the other twain
Are Archias—and Philip.

Thulia.
Which was he
With the red beard?—he bore his sword up thus,
Under his arm.—

Andro.
Oh! that was Archias;
A loose, debauched man.

Thulia.
I'd rather see
Toad—adder—newt—or aught more loathsome still,
Than that man's countenance. Oh! it is bad!

Epam.
(to Pelop.)
That will be well. I'll call on you at night
And hear how you have sped. And, if the Senate
Should favour you,—then stir Ismenias up
To bolder questioning.—Shall we attend you? (to And. and Thu.)


Thulia.
We shall be proud to be your satellites.

Epam.
Come, then, fair lady; I'm your guest to-day.

(Exeunt Androclides—Thulia—and Epaminondas. As Pelopidas is going out Abas detains him.)
Abas.
Most honor'd lord!—May I entreat one word?

Pelop.
Quick then, for I'm in haste.—

Abas.

Oh! my dread lord! I fear that I may this day have
fallen under your most terrible displeasure.—

Pelop.

Thou hast:—for thou art a tyrant to thy slaves, and

wouldst be a slave to tyrants. I know thee now, and cast thee
off.

[Exit.
Abas.

But, most valiant, and honor'd lord! be not so terrible
in punishing so awfully for such a little sin! Think—good
my lord!—for fifty years yourself—your honor'd father—and
his father—have my poor hands been favor'd to clothe in rich
habiliments—wherein, of a surety, most gracious and honor'd
—What! is he gone?—A foolish, raw-brain'd boy! I'll give
him up,—him and all his party!—I see, clear enough, what
color'd cloth will be worn next, and they shan't find me out o'
th' fashion. Aye—aye—my hot mettled lad! my old thimble
may outlast thy young head yet. I'll pay my court to Leontidas
now, and to Philip, and to the yellow-bearded Archias:
—and I'll lose no part o' th' sunshine for want of going betimes
to work.—Cast me off—indeed!—poor green boy!—
Cast me off!

(As he is going off, the Bailiff stops him.)
Bailiff.

Tarry one moment, master o' mine. You promised
me double fee, you know, for coming out o' my way when I
was about other business. Your rich promises are apt to stink
if they be not sometimes stirr'd.

Abas.

Why, thou most unconscionablest low fellow! Hast
thou taken him to prison? thou knave! If thou say'st another
word, I'll let the Archons know of thy neglect of duty; thou
vile, avaricious—and over-reaching villain! Pay thee double
fee?—Oh! thou doubly double-faced knave! Out o' my sight!

Bailiff.

Then, my old goose-iron, I'll get my fee out of that
yellow, parchment hide o' thine: thou vile, stinking old weasel!

[Exit Abas, pursued by the Bailiff.