_Terpsion. Pluto_
_Ter_. Now is this fair, Pluto,—that I should die at the age of thirty,
and that old Thucritus go on living past ninety?
_Pl_. Nothing could be fairer. Thucritus lives and is in no hurry for
his neighbours to die; whereas you always had some design against him;
you were waiting to step into his shoes.
_Ter_. Well, an old man like that is past getting any enjoyment out of
his money; he ought to die, and make room for younger men.
_Pl_. This is a novel principle: the man who can no longer derive
pleasure from his money is to die!—Fate and Nature have ordered it
otherwise.
_Ter_. Then they have ordered it wrongly. There ought to be a proper
sequence according to seniority. Things are turned upside down, if an
old man is to go on living with only three teeth in his head, half
blind, tottering about with a pair of slaves on each side to hold him
up, drivelling and rheumy-eyed, having no joy of life, a living tomb,
the derision of his juniors,—and young men are to die in the prime of
their strength and beauty. 'Tis contrary to nature. At any rate the
young men have a right to know when the old are going to die, so that
they may not throw away their attentions on them for nothing, as is
sometimes the case. The present arrangement is a putting of the cart
before the horse.
_Pl_. There is a great deal more sound sense in it than you suppose,
Terpsion. Besides, what right have you young fellows got to be prying
after other men's goods, and thrusting yourselves upon your childless
elders? You look rather foolish, when you get buried first; it tickles
people immensely; the more fervent your prayers for the death of your
aged friend, the greater is the general exultation when you precede
him. It has become quite a profession lately, this amorous devotion to
old men and women,—childless, of course; children destroy the illusion.
By the way though, some of the beloved objects see through your dirty
motives well enough by now; they have children, but they pretend to
hate them, and so have lovers all the same. When their wills come to be
read, their faithful bodyguard is not included: nature asserts itself,
the children get their rights, and the lovers realize, with gnashings
of teeth, that they have been taken in.
_Ter_. Too true! The luxuries that Thucritus has enjoyed at my expense!
He always looked as if he were at the point of death. I never went to
see him, but he would groan and squeak like a chicken barely out of the
shell: I considered that he might step into his coffin at any moment,
and heaped gift upon gift, for fear of being outdone in generosity by
my rivals; I passed anxious, sleepless nights, reckoning and arranging
all; 'twas this, the sleeplessness and the anxiety, that brought me to
my death. And he swallows my bait whole, and attends my funeral
chuckling.
_Pl_. Well done, Thucritus! Long may you live to enjoy your wealth,—and
your joke at the youngsters' expense; many a toady may you send hither
before your own time comes!
_Ter_. Now I think of it, it _would_ be a satisfaction if Charoeades
were to die before him.
_Pl_. Charoeades! My dear Terpsion, Phido, Melanthus,—every one of them
will be here before Thucritus,—all victims of this same anxiety!
_Ter_. That is as it should be. Hold on, Thucritus!