And farewell they that wish us put asunder!
Death, naught but death shall part us.
Mysis. I revive.
Pam. Apollo’s oracles are not more true.
If that my father may be wrought upon,
To think I hinder’d not the match, ’tis well:
But if that can not be, come what come may,
Why let him know, ’twas I—What think you now? (To Charinus.)
Char. That we are wretches both.
Davus. My brain ’s at work.