CLIN. How! tell me all: for there is naught on earth I'd rather know than that my fears are false. SYRUS. First then, that you may be appris'd of all, Th' old woman, thought her mother, was not so: That beldam also is deceas'd; for this I overheard her, as we came along, Telling the other. CLIT. Other! who? what other? SYRUS. Let me but finish what I have begun, And I shall come to that. CLIT. Dispatch then. SYRUS. First, Having arriv'd, Dromo knocks at the door: Which an old woman had no sooner open'd, But in goes Dromo, and I after him. Th' old woman bolts the door, and spins again, And now, or never, Clinia, might be known, Coming thus unexpectedly upon her, Antiphila's employments in your absence: For such, as then we saw, we might presume Her daily practice, which of all things else, Betrays the mind and disposition most. Busily plying of the web we found her, Decently clad in mourning,--I suppose, For the deceas'd old woman.--She had on No gold or trinkets, but was plain and neat, And dress'd like those who dress but for themselves. No female varnish to set off her beauty: Her hair dishevel'd, long, and flowing loose About her shoulders.--Peace! (_To CLINIA._) CLIN. Nay, prithee, Syrus, Do not transport me thus without a cause. SYRUS. Th' old woman spun the woof; one servant-girl, A tatter'd dirty dowdy, weaving by her. CLIT. Clinia, if this be true, as sure it is, Who is more fortunate than you? D'ye mark The ragged dirty girl that he describ'd? A sign the mistress leads a blameless life, When she maintains no flaunting go-between: For 'tis a rule with those gallants, who wish To win the mistress, first to bribe the maid. CLIN. Go on, I beg you, Syrus; and take heed You fill me not with idle joy.--What said she When you nam'd me? SYRUS. As soon as we inform'd her You was return'd, and begg'd her to come to you, She left her work immediately, and burst Into a flood of tears, which one might see Were shed for love of you. CLIN. By all the Gods, I know not where I am for very joy. Oh, how I trembled! CLIT. Without cause, I knew. But come; now, Syrus, tell us, who's that other? SYRUS. Your mistress, Bacchis. CLIT. How! what! Bacchis? Tell me, Where d'ye bring her, rogue? SYRUS. Where do I bring her? To our house certainly. CLIT. My father's? SYRUS. Aye. CLIT. Oh monstrous impudence! SYRUS. Consider, Sir; More danger, the more honor. CLIT. Look ye, Sirrah, You mean to purchase praise at my expense, Where the least slip of yours would ruin me. What is't you drive at? SYRUS. But---- CLIT. But what? SYRUS. I'll tell you, Give me but leave! CLIN. Permit him. CLIT. Well, I do. SYRUS. This business--now--is just as if-- (_Drawling._) CLIT. Confusion! What a long roundabout beginning! CLIN. True. To the point, Syrus! SYRUS. I've no patience with you. You use me ill, Sir, and I can't endure it. CLIN. Hear him: peace, Clitipho! (_To CLITIPHO._)