DEM. Verily I am A most unhappy man! for first of all, I can not find my brother any where: And then besides, in looking after him, I chanc'd on one of my day laborers, Who had but newly left my farm, and told me Ctesipho was not there. What shall I do? {_CTESIPHO and SYRUS apart._} CTES. (_peeping out._) Syrus? SYRUS. What? CTES. Does he seek me? SYRUS. Yes. CTES. Undone! SYRUS. Courage! DEM. (_to himself_). Plague on it, what ill luck is this? I can't account for it: but I believe That I was born for nothing but misfortunes. I am the first who feels our woes; the first Who knows of them; the first who tells the news: And come what may, I bear the weight alone. SYRUS (_behind_). Ridiculous! he says he knows all first; And he alone is ignorant of all. DEM. I'm now return'd to see if Micio Be yet come home again. {_CTESIPHO and SYRUS apart._} CTES. (_peeping out_). Take care, good Syrus, He don't rush in upon us unawares! SYRUS. Peace! I'll take care. CTES. 'Faith, I'll not trust to you, But shut myself and her in some by-place Together: that's the safest. SYRUS. Well, away! (_CTESIPHO disappears._) I'll drive the old man hence, I warrant you. DEM. (_seeing SYRUS_). But see that rascal Syrus coming hither! SYRUS (_advancing hastily, and pretending not to see DEMEA_). By Hercules, there is no living here, For any one, at this rate.--I'd fain know How many masters I'm to have.--Oh monstrous! DEM. What does he howl for? what's the meaning on't? Hark ye, my good Sir! prithee tell me if My brother be at home. SYRUS. _My good Sir!_ Plague! Why do you come with your _good Sirs_ to me? I'm half-kill'd. DEM. What's the matter? SYRUS. What's the matter! Ctesipho, vengeance on him, fell upon me, And cudgel'd me and the poor Music-Girl Almost to death. DEM. Indeed? SYRUS. Indeed. Nay see How he has cut my lip. (_Pretending to show it._) DEM. On what account? SYRUS. The girl, he says, was bought by my advice. DEM. Did not you say you saw him out of town A little while ago? SYRUS. And so I did. But he came back soon after, like a madman. He had no mercy.--Was not he asham'd To beat a poor old fellow? to beat me; Who bore him in my arms but t'other day, An urchin thus high? (_Showing._) DEM. Oh rare, Ctesipho! Father's own son! a man, I warrant him. SYRUS. Oh rare, d'ye cry? I' faith, if he is wise, He'll hold his hands another time. DEM. Oh brave! SYRUS. Oh mighty brave, indeed!--Because he beat A helpless girl, and me a wretched slave, Who durst not strike again;--oh, to be sure, Mighty brave, truly! DEM. Oh, most exquisite! My Ctesipho perceived, as well as I, That you was the contriver of this business. --But is my brother here? SYRUS. Not he. (_Sulkily._) DEM. I'm thinking Where I shall seek him. SYRUS. I know where he is: But I'll not tell. DEM. How, Sirrah? SYRUS. Even so. DEM. I'll break your head. SYRUS. I can not tell the name Of him he's gone to, but I know the place. DEM. Well, where's the place?