e this said in his behalf who lately
made the public give way to a slave as he ran along in the street;[19]
why should he take a madman's part? About his faults he will say more
when he brings out some other new ones, unless he puts an end to his
caviling. Attend with favorable feelings; grant me the opportunity
that I may be allowed to act a quiet Play[20] in silence; that the
servant everlastingly running about, the angry old man, the gluttonous
parasite, the impudent sharper, {and} the greedy procurer, may not
have always to be performed by me with the utmost expense of voice,
{and} the greatest exertion. For my sake come to the conclusion that
this request is fair, that so some portion of my labor may be
abridged. For nowadays, those who write new {Plays} do not spare an
aged man. If there is any {piece} requiring exertion, they come
running to me; but if it is a light one, it is taken to another
Company. In the present one the style is pure. Do you make proof,
what, in each character,[21] my ability can effect. If I have never
greedily set a {high} price upon my skill, and have come to the
conclusion that this is my greatest gain, as far as possible to be
subservient to your convenience, establish in me a precedent, that the
young may be anxious rather to please you than themselves.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

_Enter CHREMES, and MENEDEMUS with a spade in his hand, who falls to
digging._

CHREM. Although this acquaintanceship between us is of very recent
date, from the time in fact of your purchasing an estate here in the
neighborhood, yet either your good qualities, or our being neighbors
(which I take to be a sort of friendship), induces me to inform you,
frankly and familiarly, that you appear to me to labor beyond your
years, and beyond what your affairs require. For, in the name of Gods
and men, what would you have? What can be your aim? You are, as I
conjecture, sixty years of age, or more. No man in these parts has a
better or a more valuable estate, no one more servants; and yet you
discharge their duties just as diligently as if there were none at
all. However early in the morning I go out, and however late in the
evening I return home, I see you either digging, or plowing, or doing
something, in fact, in the fields. You take respite not an instant,
and are quite regardless of yourself. I am very sure that this is not
done for your amusement. But really I am vexed how little work is done
h