Aulularia, or The Concealed Treasure (363-428b)

Mind you your business; I’ll step in and see what the cooks are doing, to observe whom, i’ faith, to-day it is a most laborious task.

Unless I manage this one thing, for them to cook the dinner down in the dungeon[*]; thence, when cooked, we might bring it up again in small baskets. But if they should eat below[*] whatever they should cook, those above would go without their dinner, and those below have dined. But here am I chattering, as though I had no business,

when there’s such a pack of thieves in the house.

I wished at length to screw up my courage to-day, so as to enjoy myself at the wedding of my daughter. I come to the market, I enquire about fish; they tell me that it is dear, that lamb is dear, beef is dear,

veal, large fish[*], and pork, all of them are dear. And for this reason were they still dearer; I hadn’t the money. I came away thence in a rage, since I had nothing wherewithal to make a purchase; and thus did I baulk[*] all those rascals. Then I began to think with myself upon the road,

If you are guilty of any extravagance on a festive day, you may be wanting on a common day, unless you are saving. After I disclosed this reasoning to my heart and appetite, my mind came over to my opinion, that I ought to give my daughter in marriage at as little expense as possible.

Now I’ve bought a bit of frankincense, and these chaplets of flowers; these shall be placed upon the hearth for our household God, that he may grant a propitious marriage to my daughter. But what do I—? Do I behold my house open? There’s a noise, too, within; is it that I’m robbed, wretch that I am?

Seek of the neighbours a bigger pot[*] if you can; this one’s too little, it can’t hold it.

Woe to me! By my faith, I’m a dead man; the gold’s being carried off—my pot’s being looked for. I am certainly murdered, unless I make haste to run with all haste in-doors here! Apollo, prithee do assist and help me, whom thou hast already, before this, helped in such circumstances.

Pierce with thine arrows the plunderers of my treasures. But am I delaying to run, before I perish outright.

Dromo, do you scale the fish. Do you, Machaerio, have the conger and the lamprey boned.

I’m going to ask the loan of a baking-pan of our neighbour Congrio. You, if you are wise, will have that capon more smoothly picked for me than is a plucked play-actor[*]. But what’s this clamour that’s arising here hard by? By my faith, the cooks, I do believe, are at their usual pranks[*].

I’ll run in-doors, lest there may be any disturbance here for me as well.

Beloved fellow-citizens, fellow-countrymen, inhabitants, neighbours, and all strangers, do make way for me to escape! Make all the streets clear! Never have I at any time, until this day, come to Bacchants[*], in a Bacchanalian den, to cook; so sadly have they mauled wretched me and my scullions with their sticks.

I’m aching all over, and am utterly done for; that old fellow has so made a bruising school[*] of me; and in such a fashion has he turned us all out of the house, myself and them, laden with sticks. Nowhere, in all the world, have I ever seen wood dealt out more plentifully. Alackaday! by my faith, to my misery, I’m done for; the Bacchanalian den is opening, here he comes. He’s following us. I know the thing I’ll do: that the master himself[*] has taught me.

Come back! Where are you running to, now? Hold you!

Why are you crying out, you stupid?

Because this instant I shall give your name to the Triumvirs [*].

Why?

Because you’ve got a knife.

’Tis the proper thing for a cook.

Why did you threaten me?

I think that it was badly managed, that I didn’t pierce your side with it.

There’s not a person that’s living this day a greater rascal than you,

nor one to whom designedly I would with greater pleasure cause a mischief.

I’ faith, though[*] you should hold your noise, really that’s quite clear; the thing itself is its own witness. As it is, I’m made softer by far with your sticks than any ballet-dancer. But what right have you to touch us, you beggarman? What’s the matter?

Do you even ask me? Is it that I’ve done less than I ought to have done? Only let me—

Now, by my faith, at your great peril, if this head should feel it!

Troth, I don’t know what may happen [*] hereafter; your head feels it just now! But what business, pray, had you in my house, in my absence, unless I had ordered you? I want to know that.

Hold your noise, then; because we came to cook for the wedding.