_Men._ ’Tis kind of you thus to recall your sorrow to comfort mine. My condolence can make a distinction: the child you lost 140 Was a daughter, a babe, you say. Clinia was my only son, Grown up. Besides you admit you were not at all to blame: I brought this on myself. See, friend, the difference! _Chr._ However I see no reason yet to despair, Menedemus. You will have him safe at home again, and soon, I am sure. _Men._ The gods grant it. _Chr._ They will. And now, ’tis the feast of Bacchus; We keep a birthday too. I hope, if it is agreeable, That you will come and dine at my house. _Men._ I can’t. _Chr._ Why not? Do pray now, after all you have done, allow yourself This little relaxation. Think your absent son 150 Is asking you through me. _Men._ It is not right that I, Who have driven him into hardships, should spend my time in pleasures. _Chr._ You will not change your mind? _Men._ No. _Chr._ Then I’ll say good-bye. _Men._ Good-bye. [_Exit._ _Chr._ A tear, I do believe; I am sorry for him. ’Tis lamentable to see goodness punished thus For lack of a little wisdom. Folly brings remorse, And again remorse folly: they tread the circle; and he Would mend one fault by another, and on himself revenge The wrong he has done his son. And that wrong too was not 159 A real unkindness: no: mere want of common sense; It’s what I am always saying,—that is evil. To quote From the very profoundest of authors, my favourite Sophocles, _Wisdom is far away the chiefest of happiness._ Of course a man may be happy, although he has lost his son, If it cannot be charged to his fault. In spite of the best intentions Menedemus is much to blame. Poor fellow, but I may assist him. And if I can, I will. I love to help a neighbour; ’Tis pleasure as well as duty: because it is a pleasure To be wiser than others, and even a friend’s predicament Increases the satisfaction I feel, when I think how well 170 My own household is managed. But stay, ’tis time I went To see that all’s in order for the feast we hold to-night. There are one or two old friends, who’d take it much amiss Did I not ask them. Now at once I’ll go and find them. [_Exit._ _Enter Pamphilus and Clinia._ _PAMPHILUS._ That queer old boy’s my father: didn’t you know him? _CLINIA._ No. How should I? but his name I know—Chremes. _Pam._ You have it. Take care he hear not your name. _Clin._ Why so, Pamphilus? What can he know of me? and if he knew ...