ever was a cross old man:
And now there's nothing that I dread so much,
As lest he be transported in his rage
To some gross outrages against his son.

CHREM. He!--He!--But I'll contain myself. 'Tis good
For Menedemus that his son should fear. (_Aside._)

CLIT. What say you, Sir, within yourself! (_Overhearing._)

CHREM. I say,
Be't as it might, the son should have remain'd.
Grant that the father bore too strict a hand
Upon his loose desires; he should have borne it.
Whom would he bear withal, if not a parent?
Was't fitting that the father should conform
To the son's humor, or the son to his?
And for the rigor that he murmurs at,
'Tis nothing: the severities of fathers,
Unless perchance a hard one here and there,
Are much the same: they reprimand their sons
For riotous excesses, wenching, drinking;
And starve their pleasures by a scant allowance.
Yet this all tends to good: but when the mind
Is once enslav'd to vicious appetites,
It needs must follow vicious measures too.
Remember then this maxim, Clitipho,
A wise one 'tis to draw from others' faults
A profitable lesson for yourself.

CLIT. I do believe it.

CHREM. Well, I'll in, and see
What is provided for our supper: you,
As the day wears, see that you're not far hence. (_Exit._

[Changes:

_Harper_
That I, and under my own roof, had been
_Colman 1768_
That I, and under my own roof, might be]

SCENE IV.

_CLITIPHO alone._

What partial judges of all sons are fathers!
Who ask gray wisdom from our greener years,
And think our minds should bear no touch of youth;
Governing by their passions, now kill'd in them,
And not by those that formerly rebell'd.
If ever I've a son, I promise him
He shall find me an easy father; fit
To know, and apt to pardon his offenses!
Not such as mine, who, speaking of another,
Shows how he'd act in such a case himself:
Yet when he takes a cup or two too much,
Oh, what mad pranks he tells me of his own:
But warns me now "to draw from others' faults
A profitable lesson for myself."
Cunning old gentleman! he little knows,
He pours his proverbs in a deaf man's ear.
The words of Bacchis, _Give me, Bring me_, now
Have greater weight with me: to whose commands,
Alas! I've nothing to reply withal;
Nor is there man more wretched than myself.
For Clinia here (though he, I must confess,
Has cares enough) has got a mistress, modest,
Well-bred, and stranger to all harlot arts:
Mine is a self-will'd, wanton