—Oh Davus, am I then so much your scorn?
Seem I so proper to be play’d upon,
With such a shallow, barefac’d, imposition?
You might at least, in reverence, have us’d
Some spice of art, wer’t only to pretend
You fear’d my anger, should I find you out.
Davus. I’ faith now he deceives himself, not I. (Aside.)
Simo. Did not I give you warning? threaten too,
In case you play’d me false? But all in vain:
For what car’d you?—What! think you I believe