Which I know neither how to shun nor how
To extricate myself: for this bold stroke
Of ours can’t long be hid.
Ant. What’s this confusion?
Geta. Then I have scarce a moment’s time to think.
My master is arriv’d.
Ant. What mischief’s that?
Geta. Who, when he shall have heard it, by what art
Shall I appease his anger?—Shall I speak?
’Twill irritate him.—Hold my peace?—enrage him.——