Scene I.

Charinus, Byrrhia.

Char. How, Byrrhia? Is she to be married, say you, To Pamphilus to-day?

Byr. 'Tis even so.

Char. How do you know?

Byr. I had it even now From Davus at the Forum.

Char. Woe is me! Then I'm a wretch indeed: till now my mind Floated 'twixt hope and fear: now, hope remov'd, Stunn'd, and o'erwhelm'd, it sinks beneath its cares.

Byr. Nay, prithee master, since the thing you wish Can not be had, e'en wish for that which may!

Char. I wish for nothing but Philumena.

Byr. Ah, how much wiser were it, that you strove To quench this passion, than, with words like these To fan the fire, and blow it to a flame?

Char. How readily do men at ease prescribe To those who're sick at heart! distress'd like me, You would not talk thus.

Byr. Well, well, as you please.

Char. Ha! I see Pamphilus. I can resolve On any thing, e'er give up all for lost.

Byr. What now?

Char. I will entreat him, beg, beseech him, Tell him our course of love, and thus, perhaps, At least prevail upon him to defer His marriage some few days: meanwhile, I hope, Something may happen.

Byr. Aye, that something's nothing.

Char. Byrrhia, what think you? Shall I speak to him?

Byr. Why not? for though you don't obtain your suit, He will at least imagine you're prepar'd To cuckold him, in case he marries her.

Char. Away, you hang-dog, with your base suspicions!