Beholden to him.—But, pray, why so sad?
Geta. I?—You can scarce imagine in what dread.
What danger I am in.
Davus. How so?
Geta. I’ll tell you,
So you will keep it secret.
Davus. Away, fool!
The man whose faith in money you have tried,
D’ye fear to trust with words?—And to what end
Should I deceive you?