r, whom I know worthy the highest honors.

SYRUS. No doubt on't.--But now, Clinia, hold a while!
Give me a moment's hearing in my turn.
For your friend's business must be thought of now,
And well secur'd, lest our old gentleman
Suspect about the wench.

CLIN. O Jupiter! (_In raptures._)

SYRUS. Peace! (_Impatiently._)

CLIN. My Antiphila shall be my wife.

SYRUS. And will you interrupt me?

CLIN. Oh, my Syrus,
What can I do! I'm overjoy'd. Bear with me.

SYRUS. Troth so I do.

CLIN. We're happy, as the Gods.

SYRUS. I lose my labor on you.

CLIN. Speak; I hear.

SYRUS. Aye, but you don't attend.

CLIN. I'm all attention.

SYRUS. I say then, Clinia, that your friend's affairs
Must be attended to, and well secur'd:
For if you now depart abruptly from us,
And leave the wench upon our hands, my master
Will instantly discover she belongs
To Clitipho. But if you take her off,
It will remain, as still it is, a secret.

CLIN. But, Syrus, this is flatly opposite
To what I most devoutly wish, my marriage,
For with what face shall I accost my father?
D'ye understand me?

SYRUS. Aye.

CLIN. What can I say?
What reason can I give him?

SYRUS. Tell no lie.
Speak the plain truth.

CLIN. How?

SYRUS. Every syllable.
Tell him your passion for Antiphila;
Tell him you wish to marry her, and tell him,
Bacchis belongs to Clitipho.

CLIN. 'Tis well,
In reason, and may easily be done:
And then besides you'd have me win my father,
To keep it hid from your old gentleman.

SYRUS. No; rather to prevail on him, to go
And tell him the whole truth immediately.

CLIN. How? are you mad? or drunk? You'll be the ruin
Of Clitipho: for how can he be safe?
Eh, Sirrah!

SYRUS. That's my master-piece: this plot
Is my chief glory, and I'm proud to think
I have such force, such power of cunning in me,
As to be able to deceive them both,
By speaking the plain truth: that when your father
Tells Chremes, Bacchis is his own son's mistress,
He sha'n't believe it.

CLIN. But that way again
You blast my hopes of marriage: for while Chremes
Supposes her my mistress, he'll not grant
His daughter to me. You, perhaps, don't care,
So you provide for him, what comes of me.

SYRUS. Why, plague! d'ye think I'd have you counterfeit
Forever? but a day, to give me time
To bubble Chremes of the money.--Peace!
Not an hour more.

CLIN. Is that sufficient for you?
But then, suppose his father find it out!

SYRUS. Suppose, as s