His daughter to me. You, perhaps, don’t care,
So you provide for him, what comes of me.
Syrus. Why, plague! d’ye think I’d have you counterfeit
Forever? but a day, to give me time
To bubble Chremes of the money.—Peace!
Not an hour more.
Clin. Is that sufficient for you?
But then, suppose his father find it out!
Syrus. Suppose, as some folks say, the sky should fall!
Clin. Still I’m afraid.