Clinia.

I, father? How can you ask?

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:— 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, 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 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.

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. 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.