Pamphilus.

What unjust judges fathers all are towards their children; Pretending to us as they do that the moment we cease to be boys We ought to become thorough old men, without a trace Of the inclinations natural to our time of life: Governing us by the rule of their present appetites, And not by those they have lost. If ever I have a son, He will find me an easy father, able to understand His faults, I hope, and ready to make allowance for them: Not like mine, suspicious & cross—& he never speaks But to read me a lecture on somebody else. Why, bless my soul, If he has but taken an extra glass or two, the tales Of his own wickedness he’ll come out with! And then he says, By others’ faults wise men correct their own. What wisdom! He little thinks how deaf an adder he is trying to charm. At present the words of my mistress touch me nearer far, When she says, Give me this, or, Bring me that; and I Have nothing to answer. Nobody could be in a worse plight. This fellow Clinia here has his hands full, yet his mistress Is modest & well brought up, too gentle & innocent To trifle with affection. Mine is a fine lady, exacting, Vain, fashionable & extravagant; & I lack the means To please her fancy. This misfortune is new to me— An experience, which I have only just begun to learn: And as yet my father guesses nothing of it.

Enter Clinia.