Simo. Well, what is’t?
Davus. Nay, nothing.
Simo. Tell me, what is’t?
Davus. You are then, he complains,
Somewhat too sparing of expense.
Simo. I?
Davus. You.
A feast of scarce ten Drachms? Does this, says he,
Look like a wedding-supper for his son?
What friends can I invite? especially