_Men._ You are young to marry; but, mind, I should not make your age
An objection, provided I thought you knew what marriage is.
But do you, can you know? You have only experience
Of childhood, and some few years of youthful liberty:
What can thát teach? Your tie to me, your friendships,—
Some intimate friendships too: but nothing here nor there
Comparable to the bond of marriage. Suppose I say
’Tis, next to existence, the most familiar thing in
the world:— 1358
Then judge how jealous pride & self-regard should be,
Ere they admit this master circumstance to rule,
As rule it must. You know the story Plato tells
Of Er, the Armenian soldier, & what he saw in death,
Permitted to stand between the gates of heaven and hell;
How there he saw the souls, who, ere they came on earth,
Were choosing each their lives in turn—and, what was strange,
How wantonly and without deliberation they chose,
Making a rush at what they fancied first: and this,
So Plato said, explained man’s discontent on earth,
His misery being his fault. All w^h, be it fable or no,
Clinia, has this much truth; that you may see the like
Without going down to the grave, nor any revelation
Of nature’s secrecies—but every day on earth, 1372
In men that wive. With them the stake is no less great;
Their carelessness in choice, their after-discontent
Match each in kind. Now I would play the interpreter
To you, as some celestial did to Er: I warn you,
Take not this step in haste. You choose a second being:
The lives are strewn before you: is this the best to take?
_Clin._ O if you knew Antiphila, father, you would not ask.
_Men._ Very well. I see your choice is made. I only wish 1380
She did not drink.
_Clin._ O father! you know—
_Men._ Yes, yes. I know.
What a number of sad mistakes Chremes has made to-day!
He has not discovered yet who the two Persians were,
Who came to frighten me.
_Clin._ I hope I need not tell you, father,
I never wished that done. I feared you might be grieved:
But Chremes being so sure you never would forgive me ...
_Men._ Was he?
_Clin._ He said you told him.
_Men._ Did he? He has been to blame.
There’s much he will have to explain to me, which he will not wish
Another to hear. Retire to the garden, while I go
And smooth things over with him, and ask his daughter’s hand. 1390
_Clin._ How long?
_Men._ Well, if I send, be ready at once to come:
And see that Pamphilus too is handy: explain to him,
That if I can be happy enough to make his peace with his father,
His presence will then be needed.
_Clin._ I hope it will not be long. [_Exit._
_Men._ I am not very wise myself or clever, that I know:
And I may have behaved in a manner open to criticism,
I may have even provoked derision, that may be;
I think I have. But this same would-be helper of mine,
My counsellor and guide, Chremes, is very far beyond me. 1399
I never did anything half so foolish in all my life
As to trust my secrets to him. In time now; here he comes.
_Enter Chremes._
_CHREMES._
Ah, my good Menedemus, now I have news indeed.
_Men._ I know it, Chremes, and give you my hearty congratulations.
’Tis a happy day for us both: for you have found a daughter,
And I ...
_Chr._ You know it already? Who told you?
_Men._ My son.
_Chr._ Your son!
_Men._ Clinia. Yes. He is in my house. I was coming across
To ask you to join your treasure so newly found with mine:
And to give your daughter to-day to my son in marriage.
_Chr._ Well!
I cannot understand it. Where did he come from? When?
_Men._ Why, that’s the strangest of all: he landed only
this morning, 1410
Met your son in the town; & has been in yóur house
Ever since.
_Chr._ My house?
_Men._ It seems your son is a friend of his:
He introduced him, but under another name, because
He did not wish to be known.
_Chr._ Not Clitipho?
_Men._ Ay, ’twas that.
_Chr._ There then! O how I have been deceived! And you were right
About the Persians too: they were a make-believe.
_Men._ So I guessed all along, Chremes.
_Chr._ But who then were they?
_Men._ Forgive me, my good friend, I ask you once for all,
The annoyance my family affairs have been to you to-day. 1419
Your kindness has brought you only vexation.
_Chr._ O, I am sure
You are welcome enough to any service that I can render.
_Men._ Then pray oblige me in this, and overlook the folly
Of the actors in thís fárce. The intention was to deceive
Me and not you: till you accidentally, as it seems,
Came in their way: and then they could not help themselves:
They even tried to avoid you.
_Chr._ Who were they?
_Men._ Remember too
’Tis the feast of Bacchus to-day, ’tis not so great a crime
To droll on a private person, at a time that is set apart
For mirth and jollity, and when buffoonery too makes up
A part of the festival.
_Chr._ I think no gentleman 1430
Should suffer buffoonery to cover an insult.
_Men._ Supposing not,
Yet none was intended.
_Chr._ Who were they?
_Men._ The deceit was planned for me,
And I forgive it.
_Chr._ Who were they?
_Men._ They came from yóur house.
_Chr._ Not Clinia?
_Men._ No; although it was done in his interest.
Your son was one, and a friend ...
_Chr._ I know: Philolaches.
I see.
_Men._ It seems they had drawn from you, I know not how,
Somewhat too harsh a picture of me: so ’twas resolved
To put me to proof.
_Chr._ Menedemus, since ’twas my own son,
It does not matter; for now my account with him is closed.
_Men._ What say you?
_Chr._ Well, never mind. He is now no more my son. 1440
O Menedemus, indeed he has treated me shamefully.
This morning I thought your son had acted ill by you:
How willingly now I’d change.
_Men._ You make too much of it.
No harm was meant; and none has been done: a foolish hoax,
And nothing more.
_Chr._ You cannot hope to persuade me now
There is any excuse for a son deceiving his own father.
_Men._ I think a father would find one, Chremes, where there
was none.
_Chr._ Nay, nay: no more of him. I understand you came
About my daughter.
_Men._ I did. Clinia asks her hand.
_Chr._ You know she is not that woman they made me
think....
_Men._ I know. 1450
_Chr._ Menedemus, I never wished to have a daughter. I thought
A girl was a burden, the worst possession a man could have;
Costly to rear, costly to keep, costly to get rid of.
It seems I was wrong. I have had a daughter, who from her cradle
Has never cost me a single penny, and the very hour
She is thrown on my hands, she has offers of marriage. ’Tis not
for me
To hinder the kindness of heaven. You are welcome to take her. Yet
I have one condition: the dowry.
_Men._ Certainly: about that
We shall not quarrel however. My son will be rich: and you 1459
Will give as you think is fit.
_Chr._ I still shall insist on terms.
You will not oppose a project of mine?
_Men._ I promise not;
Consider it settled: & now let us put the business off,
And bring the two young lovers happily face to face.
I long to see Antiphila.
_Chr._ Wait. I’ll call my wife, [_Goes to_ L.
And tell her to bring her out.
_Men._ And I will call my son. [_Goes to_ R.
(_Calling_) Clinia!
_Re-enter Clinia._
_Clin._ Father!
_Men._ Come! Is Pamphilus there?
_Clin._ He is.
_Men._ Let him be ready.
_Enter Sostrata and Antiphila._
_Chr._ See here, Menedemus, my daughter.
_Men._ And mine.
My dear Antiphila, I fear you have heard hard tales of me:
I have therefore the greater pleasure in bringing you, now we meet,
The joy I have stood in the way of. I have asked your good
father 1470
To grant your hand to my son in marriage: he has consented.
See, here is Clinia. Let me join your hands—for ever.
Be happy.
_SOSTRATA._
(_Aside._) The dear old man; see how he weeps for joy.
_Chr._ You will not deny me now, Menedemus, I’m sure: you’ll come
And spend what is left of the day at my house. You will
dine with us?
_Men._ With all my heart. You have not presented me to your wife.
I beg....
_Chr._ Come, Sostrata, come & make your compliments
To our new relation.
_Men._ Your servant, madam.
_Sost._ O sir, I am glad
My Antiphila will have your son for a husband.
_Men._ I am very proud
Of such a daughter-in-law. But now, if I may ask,
Where is your son Pamphilus? He should not be absent now. 1481
_Chr._ Don’t ask for him.
_Sost._ I beseech you speak with my husband, sir.
_Chr._ I beg, Menedemus, you’ll say no more. I have cast him off.
_Men._ I still shall venture to plead his forgiveness.
_Chr._ ’Tis too late.
I have sent him off already: he is gone.
_Men._ Not so: he is here.
(_Calls_) Pamphilus! (_To Chremes_) Do not blame me; I promised
to plead for him.
_Enter Pamphilus._
_Chr._ How dare you again appear in my presence, wretch? Be off!
I tell you that I disown you. Yes, Menedemus, & you
Will not attempt, I beg, to avert the punishment
He more than deserves. I have cast him away and cut him off. 1490
My whole fortune I leave to Antiphila—that is the thing
I said I sh^d ask—you promised not to oppose me: now
I beg you will not.
_Men._ Consider if you are wise.
_Chr._ Not wise?
_Sost._ O you are very unwise!
_Chr._ Wife!
_Sost._ Why, he is your son!
_Chr._ Extremely kind of you to say so! there’s not a doubt in
the world
He is yours: but were I you, I sh^d not be very vain,
Being mirrored in such a cub.
_Sost._ O Chremes, your own son!
_Chr._ Not were he twice my son, and sprung from my head,
as they say
Minerva was from Jove’s, would I own him.
_PAMPHILUS._
Consider, sir,
My mother’s feelings, although you do not consider me. 1500
_Chr._ I do not consider you, sir? In all I have done,
I have kept You and your follies in view: considering what you are,
I thought you would rather think I considered you too much.
I consider you reckless, sir; I consider that you pursue
Your pleasure and vulgar tastes. I consider you quite unfit
To be trusted with money, and so I have hit on a plan, by which
You’ll be, I consider, spared the trouble of managing it;
And though not launched on the world as I’d wish to see my son,
You’ll be, I consider, ensured from absolute destitution.
Unable to leave you my wealth, I turn to those that are next, 1510
To them I do not shrink from entrusting it; and I consider,
That at their house, Pamphilus, you will always find at least
A refuge, food & clothes, & a roof above your head.
_Pam._ Good God!
_Chr._ Don’t swear.—’Tis better than that you should be
my heir,
And Gorgo squander it. Eh, sir?
_Pam._ O, I wish I was dead.
_Chr._ First learn what ’tis to live: when you know that, if life
Displease you still, then wish to die.
_Men._ Chremes, allow me
To urge you in this. You could not really wish him to go
To Persia, say, and forsake you, as Clinia díd mé.
_Chr._ Forsake me! why, let him go to perdition for all I care, 1520
Rather than stay at home and drag his father down
To beggary with his vices and follies: for if I once
Were saddled with his expenses, I guess ’twould come very soon
To my using that spade of yours, Menedemus, in good earnest.
_Men._ You offered me your advice this morning; now I in turn....
_Chr._ I do not need advice.
_Men._ Spoil not so happy a day.
_Chr._ I have found a daughter to-day, Menedemus, but lost a son.
_Men._ You have lost your daughter to me, let me restore your son.
_Sost._ O do forgive him, Chremes; you must.
_Chr._ Pray, silence, wife.
_Clin._ Me, sir, you cannot blame for taking a brother’s part. 1530
His fault was partly mine: and what was wrongly done
Was done in my behalf.
_Chr._ No, no, there’s no excuse.
_Enter Philolaches as a Persian._
_Men._ Why, here’s our friend the Persian.
_Chr._ Pray, sir, what will you?
_PHILOLACHES._