Rudens, or The Fisherman's Rope (179_180-239)

she’ll be putting a period to her wandering.

If you are about to dine this evening at their expense, I think you may then be concerned for them, Sceparnio; if you are going to eat at my house, I wish your services to be devoted to myself.

You ask what’s good and proper.

Then follow me this way.

I follow[*].

By heavens, the mishaps of mortals are spoken of as much less bitter than ⋯ the sharp pangs that are inflicted in the experience of them ⋯ Has this then pleased the Deity, that I, clad in this guise, should, in my terror, be cast upon a spot unknown? Shall I then declare that I have been born to this wretched lot?

Do I receive this meed in return for my exemplary piety? For to me it would not prove a hardship to endure this laborious lot, if I had conducted myself undutifully towards my parents or the Gods; but if studiously I have exerted myself to beware of that, then, unduly and unjustly,

Deities, you send upon me this. For what henceforth shall the glaringly impious receive, if after this fashion you pay honor to the guiltless? But if I knew that I or my parents had done anything wicked, now should I have grieved the less. But the wickedness of this master of mine is pressing hard upon me, his impiety is causing my woes; everything has he lost in the sea;

these are the remains (looking at her dress) of his property. Even she, who was carried together with me in the boat, was washed out by the violence of the waves; I am now alone. If she at least[*] had been saved for me, through her aid my affliction here would have been lighter to me. Now, what hope or aid or what counsel shall I receive,

a spot so lonesome here have I lighted upon alone? Here are the rocks, here roars the sea, and not one individual comes across my path. This dress that I am clothed in forms all my riches quite entirely; nor know I with what food or roof I am to be provided. What hope have I through which to desire to live?

Neither am I acquainted with the place, nor was I ever here before. At least I could have wished for some one who would point out to me either a road or a path from these spots; so much am I now at a loss for advice whether to go this way or that; neither, indeed, do I see[*] anywhere near here a cultivated spot.

Cold, distraction, and alarm, have taken possession of all my limbs. My parents, you know not of this, that I am now thus wretched; I that was born a woman entirely free, was so to no purpose. Am I at all the less in servitude now, than if I had been born a slave? And never in any way has it been a profit to those who for their own sakes reared me up.

What is there better for me, what more to my advantage, than to shut out life from my body? So wretched am I in my existence, and so many deadening cares are there in my breast; so despicable is my lot; I care not for my life; I have lost the hope with which I used to comfort myself. All places have I now rambled about, and through each covert spot have I crawled along, to seek my fellow-slave with voice, eyes, ears, that I might trace her out.

And still I find her nowhere, nor have I yet determined whither to go, nor where to seek her, nor, in the meantime, do I find any person here to give me an answer, of whom I might make enquiry. No place, too, is there on earth more solitary than are these spots and this locality. And yet, if she lives, never while I exist will I cease before I discover her alive.

Whose voice is it that sounds close by me here?

I am alarmed. Who’s speaking near me?

Prithee, kind Hope, do come to my aid.

It’s a woman: a woman’s voice reaches my ears.

Will you not rescue wretched me from this alarm?

Surely a woman’s voice reached my ears.

Prithee is it Ampelisca?

Is it you, Palaestra, that I hear?

But why don’t I call her by her own name, that she may hear me? (With a loud voice.) Ampelisca!

Ha! who’s that?

’Tis I.

Is it Palaestra?[*]

It is.

Tell me where[*] you are.

Troth, I’m now in the midst of a multitude of woes.

I am your partner; and no less is my own share than yours.