Asinaria, or The Ass-Dealer (901c-931)

This fellow is fond of you, according to what he says.

On my word, he’s surely laying out all this at interest; for if, this day, he returns home, I’ll especially have my revenge in kissing him.

Father, throw the dice; that afterwards I may have a throw.

By all means.

You, Philenium, for myself, and death for my wife. (He throws.) ’Tis Venus’s cast[*]. Lads, clap your hands, and give me some honeyed wine in my cup, in honor of my throw.

I can hold out no longer.

If you haven’t learned the fulling trade[*], it’s not to be wondered at; now it’s quite fitting for you to beset his eyes. (They make their appearance before the revellers.)

By heavens, I will live, and you this day have made that invocation to your own great misfortune.

Will some one run to fetch the undertakers[*]?

Health to you, mother.

Health indeed after this fashion!

Demaenetus is dead. ’Tis time to betake myself hence: this battle bravely waxes hot. I’ll be off to Diabolus. I’ll tell him his orders are performed as he desired them; and in the meantime I’ll persuade him that we should take a meal, while these people are squabbling.

Afterwards, in fine, I’ll bring him here to-morrow, to the procuress, that he may give her the twenty mince, that, in his turn, he in his passion may be enabled to obtain this damsel. I hope that Argyrippus will be able to be prevailed upon to allow him to pass each alternate night with him in her company; for, unless I obtain that, I’ve lost my patron[*]; so great is the passion of the man by reason of his love.

What business have you to give a retreat here in your house to my husband?

Troth, he really will this day be the death of wretched me, through sheer disgust.

Rise, wencher, be off home.

I’m undone.

Yes, you are[*]; don’t, i’ faith, gainsay it, you most vile of all men. Why, the cuckoo’s still on his nest[*]. Rise, wencher, be off home.

Woe to me!

You prophesy correctly. Rise, wencher, be off home.

Step a little this way then.

Rise, wencher, be off home.

Now, prithee, wife—

Do you remember now that I’m your wife? It was but just now, when you were heaping abuse upon me, that I wasn’t your wife.

I’m utterly ruined.

Why, pray? Does the breath of your wife smell strong?

It smells of myrrh.

Have you filched my mantle then to be giving to your harlot?

By the powers—what, did he promise that he would filch your mantle?

Won’t you hold your tongue?