PHILO. (_apart_). I do wish that news were brought me now that my father's dead, that I might disinherit myself of my property, and that she might be my heir. SCA. This property _of his_ will certainly soon be at an end; day and night there's eating _and_ drinking, and no one displays thriftiness; 'tis downright cramming [3]. PHILO. (_apart_). I' faith, I'm determined to make trial on yourself for the first to be thrifty; for you shall neither eat nor drink anything at my house for the next ten days. PHILE. If you choose to say anything good about him, you shall be at liberty to say it; if you speak otherwise than well, on my word you shall have a beating instantly. PHILO. (_apart_). Upon my faith, if I had paid sacrifice to supreme Jove with that money which I gave for her liberty, never could I have so well employed it. Do see, how, from her very heart's core, she loves me! Oh, I'm a fortunate man; I've liberated _in her_ a patron to plead my cause for me. SCA. I see that, compared with Philolaches, you disregard _all_ other men; now, that on his account I mayn't get a beating, I'll agree with you in preference, if you are quite satisfied that he will always prove a friend to you. PHILE. Give me the mirror [4], and the casket with my trinkets, directly, Scapha, that I may be _quite_ dressed when Philolaches, my delight, comes here. SCA. A woman who neglects herself and her _youthful_ age has occasion for a mirror; what need of a mirror have you, who yourself are in especial a mirror for a mirror. PHILO. (_apart_). For that expression, Scapha, that you mayn't have said anything so pretty in vain, I'll to-day give something for your savings--to you, my Philematium. PHILE. (_while_ SCAPHA _is dressing her hair_). Will you see that each hair is nicely arranged in its own place? SCA. When you _yourself_ are _so_ nice, do believe that your hair must be nice. PHILO. (_apart_). Out upon it! what worse thing can possibly be spoken of than this woman? Now the jade's a flatterer, just now she was all contradictory. PHILE. Hand me the ceruse [5]. SCA. Why, what need of ceruse _have you_? PHILE. To paint my cheeks with it. SCA. On the same principle, you would want to be making ivory white with ink. PHILO. (_apart_). Cleverly said that, about the ink and the ivory! Bravo! I applaud you, Scapha. PHILE. Well then, do you give me the rouge. SCA. I shan't give it. You really are a clever one. Do you wish to patch up a most clever piece with new daubing? It's not right that any paint should touch that person, neither ceruse, nor quince-ointment, nor any other wash. Take the mirror, then. (_Hands her the glass._) PHILO. (_apart._) Ah wretched me!--she gave the glass a kiss. I could much wish for a stone, with which to break the head of that glass. SCA. Take the towel and wipe your hands. PHILE. Why so, prithee?