Poenulus, or The Young Carthaginian (1294b-1336c)

I’m delaying.

(Looking in his hand.) I can now pretty nearly cater a breakfast for myself with this. (Raising his eyes.) But what’s this? How’s this? What’s this? What’s this I see? How now? What means this strange conjunction? What’s this coupling together? Who’s this fellow with the long skirts, just like a tavern-boy? Do I quite see with my eyes? Isn’t this my mistress, Anterastylis?

Why, surely it is she. For some time past I’ve perceived that I’m set at nought. Isn’t the girl ashamed to be hugging a tawny fellow in the middle of the street? I faith, I shall give him up forthwith to the executioner to be tortured all over. Surely this is a womanish race[*], with their tunics hanging down to their heels. But I’m determined to accost this African female lover.

(To HANNO.) Hallo! you woman, I say, are you not ashamed? What business have you with her, pray? Tell me.

Young man, greetings to you.

I don’t want them; that’s nothing to you. What business have you to touch her with a finger?

Because I choose.

You choose?

I say so.

Away to utter perdition, you shoe-latchet!

What, do you dare to be acting the lover here, you great toe of a man[*], or to be meddling with an object which masculine men are fond of, you skinnea pilchard, you deformed image of Serapis[*], you half-apron, you sheepskin-jacket[*], you pot of stinking sea-salt; more crammed, too, to boot, with leeks and garlick than the Roman rowers?

Young man, do your jaws or your teeth itch, that you are annoying this person, or are you in search of a heavy mishap?

Why didn’t you use a drum[*] while you were saying that? For I take you to be more of an effeminate wretch than a real man.

Do you understand what sort of effeminate wretch I am? (Calling aloud.) Servants, come out of doors,

bring out some cudgels!

Hark you, if I have said anything in a joke, don’t you be for taking it seriously.

Prithee, what pleasure have you, Anthemonides, in speaking rudely to our kinsman and father? For this is our father; he has just now recognized us,

and him as the son of his cousin.

So may Jupiter kindly bless me, I heartily rejoice that it is so, and I am delighted, if, in fact, any great misfortune befalls this Procurer, and since a fortune awaits you equal to your merits.

I’ faith, he says what’s worthy of belief; do believe him, my father.

I do believe him.

And I believe him. But look (pointing.) I espy the Procurer Lycus,

the worthy fellow; look, there he is—he’s betaking himself homeward.

Who is this?

He’s which you please, both the Procurer and Lycus. He has been keeping your daughters in servitude,

and from myself he has stolen some gold.

A pretty fellow for you to be acquainted with!

Let’s bring him to justice.

By no means.

For what reason?