Sim. And I am glad.
Dav. Whilst things permitted it
And age allowed, he loved—but silently—
He was most mindful of the world's report—
His reputation. Now behoves to marry.
And now he is on fire to have a wife.
Sim. But he seemed sad, to me.
Dav. But not for that,
There is a matter he is wrath with you.
Sim. What?
Dav. Boy's fantasy!
Sim. But what?
Dav. Ah! nothing.
Sim. Say what?
Dav. Ah, well! you make no feast;
Art niggard.
Sim. Me?
Dav. You; not ten drachmas spent.
"Upon the feast and marriage of his son,
Whom of my friends has he bid to the supper?"
Now, by my word, you do this niggardly;
Neither do I approve it.
Sim. Hold your jaw.
Dav. [Aside.] I hit him there.
Sim. I will take care for that.
All shall go right enough. What does this mean?
He is a sly old fox; if aught go wrong.
I see and know the author well enough.
