Geta. Well.
Ant. What have you been doing?
Geta. Diddling the old fellows out of their money.
Ant. Is that quite the thing?
Geta. I’ faith, I don’t know: it’s just what I was told to do.
Ant. How now, whip-scoundrel, do you give me an answer to what I don’t ask you? (Kicks him.)
Geta. What was it then that you did ask?
Ant. What was it I did ask? Through your agency, matters have most undoubtedly come to the pass that I may go hang myself. May then all the Gods, Goddesses, Deities above and below, with every evil confound you! Look now, if you wish any thing to succeed, intrust it to him who may bring you from smooth water on to a rock. What was there less advantageous than to touch upon this sore, or to name my wife? Hopes have been excited in my father that she may possibly be got rid of. Pray now, tell me, suppose Phormio receives the portion, she must be taken home by him as his wife: what’s to become of me?
Geta. But he’s not going to marry her.
Ant. I know that. But (ironically) when they demand the money back, of course, for our sake, he’ll prefer going to prison.