_Ph._ It will not satisfy him. For he is a potentate: but I will obey thee, sir.
_Pam._ TARTYS CHRIBOS! (_Puts hand on sword._)
_Chr._ Well, I am but a poor man, but what is right I’ll do. Look! here are four more pieces, and that is all I have. And pray consider, sirs, the mournful news you bring Cannot be held of value, as joyful tidings might. (_Gives._)
(_Aside._) I hope this may content them: ’tis not much. Menedemus 890 Will after all be spared the expense of a funeral.
_Ph._ Sir, he is still but ill contented.
_Chr._ Then wait, sirs. I’ll go in and fetch you what I may.
_Chr._ (_aside_). I’ll go and find Menedemus. [_Exit._
_Pam._ What sport! O gods! five pounds! He never made me so handsome a present in all my life. I’ve tried all kinds of dodges to screw coin out of him, But I never could: and you’ve come round him twice to-day. I’ll arrange with you for some more adventures of this sort.
_Enter Menedemus at back unperceived: he watches them._
_Ph._ What made your governor Tell all those lies?
_Ph._ Why should he pretend To be Menedemus?
_Pam._ Merely to meddle: besides no doubt He was anxious about the money we cheated him of this morning; He wishes now he was off his bargain with Gorgo.
_Ph._ Ay. He gave you a blessing this morning.
_Pam._ May the gods bless him. I love him at this moment.
_Pam._ Hercules! there is old Menedemus himself. Make haste! I hope he has not overheard us.
_Chrysnotaparoys_! Whatever jargon is this? 910 Queer-looking fellows too to be prowling about my house, And talking of me. Some maskers my neighbour Chremes hires To honour the Feast of Bacchus. A stupid, vulgar fashion, This orientalising, in great vogue too, and still Gains ground, I fear; and this is one of the gaudy-days. ’Tis well I did not accept his invitation to dine. Mummery and tomfoolery! Alas, I have been all day More nervous and anxious than ever. I even thought this morning I heard my poor son’s voice: so certain I was that I ran To the end of the garden and looked.—Surely I was either born 920 With a mind most singularly sensible of grief, or else The saying is not true that time is sorrow’s cure. My sorrow rather increases upon me every day, And the longer he is away the more do I yearn for him, And miss him.