Chrysanthus. 
Sir, the state in which you see me,
This secluded room, this stillness,
Do not spring from want of feeling,
Or indifference to your wishes. 
’T is my natural disposition;
For I have no taste to mingle
In the vulgar vain pursuits
Of the courtier crowds ambitious. 
And if living to myself here
More of true enjoyment gives me,
Why would you desire me seek for
That which must my joys diminish? 
Let this time of sadness pass,
Let these hours of lonely vigil,
Then for fame and its applauses,
Which no merit of my own,
But my father’s name may bring me.

Polemius. 
Would it not, my son, be fitter
That you should enjoy those plaudits
In the fresh and blooming spring-time
Of your life, and to hereafter
Leave the loneliness and vigil?

Escarpin. 
Let me tell a little story
Which will make the whole thing simple:—­
A bad painter bought a house,
Altogether a bad business,
For the house itself was bad: 
He however was quite smitten
With his purchase, and would show it
To a friend of his, keen-witted,
But bad also:  when they entered,
The first room was like a kitchen,
Black and bad:—­“This room, you see, sir,
Now is bad, but just permit me
First to have it whitewashed over,
Then shall my own hand with pictures
Paint the walls from floor to ceiling,
Then you ’ll see how bright ’t will glisten".—­
To him thus his friend made answer,
Smiling archly:  “Yes, ’t will glisten,
But if you would paint it first,
And then whitewash o’er the pictures,
The effect would be much better".—­
Now ’s the time for you, my lord,
To lay on the shining pigment: 
On that brilliant ground hereafter
Will the whitewash fall more fitly,
For, in fine, the poorest painting
Is improved by time’s slow finger.

Chrysanthus. 
Sir, I say, that in obedience
To your precepts, to your wishes,
I will strive from this day forward
So to act, that you will think me
Changed into another being. [Exit.

Polemius. 
Claudius, my paternal instinct
Makes me fear Chrysanthus’ sadness,
Makes we tremble that its issue
May result in total madness. 
Since thou art his friend and kinsman
Both combined, make out, I pray thee,
What occasions this bewitchment,
To the end that I may break it: 
And my promise now I give thee,
That although I should discover
Love’s delirious dream delicious
May be at the root,—­most likely
At his age the true suspicion,—­
It shall not disturb or grieve me. 
Nay, since I am doomed to witness
His dejection, it will glad me
To find out that so it springeth.

Escarpin. 
Once a high priest of Apollo
Had two nephews soft and silly,
More than silly, wretched creatures,
More than wretched, doltish drivels;
And perceiving from experience
How love smartens up its victims,
He but said to them this only,
“Fall in love at least, ye ninnies".—­
Thus, though not in love, sir, now,
I ’ll be bound he ’ll be so quickly,
Merely to oblige you.