Ant. Can you then bear to see your Pamphila
Torn from this city, Phædria?—Can you, Dorio,
Divide their loves
Dorio. Nor I, nor you.
Geta. Plague on you!
Dorio (to Phædria). I have, against my natural disposition,
Borne with you several months, still promising,
Whimpering, and ne’er performing any thing:
Now, on the contrary, I’ve found a spark,
Who’ll prove a ready-paymaster, no sniveler: