Pho. Would that were the worst, Sir,
That will repair it self: but I fear mainly,
She has made her peace with Cæsar.
Ptol. 'Tis most likely,
And what am I then?
Pho. 'Plague upon that Rascal
Apollod[or]us, under whose command,
Under whose eye—
Enter Achillas.
Ptol. Curse on you all, ye are wretches.