ay, why so sad?

GETA. I?--You can scarce imagine in what dread.
What danger I am in.

DAVUS. How so?

GETA. I'll tell you,
So you will keep it secret.

DAVUS. Away, fool!
The man whose faith in money you have tried,
D'ye fear to trust with words?--And to what end
Should I deceive you?

GETA. List, then!

DAVUS. I'm all ear.

GETA. D'ye know our old man's elder brother, Chremes?

DAVUS. Know him? aye, sure.

GETA. You do?--And his son Phaedria?

DAVUS. As well as I know you.

GETA. It so fell out,
Both the old men were forc'd to journey forth
At the same season. He to Lemnos, ours
Into Cilicia, to an old acquaintance
Who had decoy'd the old curmudgeon thither
By wheedling letters, almost promising
Mountains of gold.

DAVUS. To one that had so much
More than enough already?

GETA. Prithee, peace!
Money's his passion.

DAVUS. Oh, would I had been
A man of fortune, I!

GETA. At their departure,
The two old gentlemen appointed me
A kind of governor to both their sons.

DAVUS. A hard task, Geta!

GETA. Troth, I found it so.
My angry Genius for my sins ordain'd it.
At first I took upon me to oppose:
In short, while I was trusty to th' old man,
The young one made my shoulders answer for it.

DAVUS. So I suppose: for what a foolish task
To kick against the pricks!

GETA. I then resolv'd
To give them their own way in every thing.

DAVUS. Aye, then you made your market.

GETA. Our young spark
Play'd no mad pranks at first: but Phaedria
Got him immediately a music-girl:
Fond of her to distraction! she belong'd
To a most avaricious, sordid pimp;
Nor had we aught to give;--th' old gentleman
Had taken care of that. Naught else remain'd,
Except to feed his eyes, to follow her,
To lead her out to school, and hand her home.
We too, for lack of other business, gave
Our time to Phaedria. Opposite the school,
Whither she went to take her lessons, stood
A barber's shop, wherein most commonly
We waited her return. Hither one day
Came a young man in tears: we were amaz'd,
And ask'd the cause. Never (said he, and wept)
Did I suppose the weight of poverty
A load so sad, _so_ insupportable,
As it appear'd but now.--I saw but now,
Not far from hence, a miserable virgin
Lamenting her dead mother. Near the corpse
She sat; nor friend, nor kindred, nor acquaintance,
Except one poor old woman, was there near
To aid the funeral. I pitied her:
Her beauty, too, was exquisite.--In short,
He mov'd us all: