To bear your ills. For me, I speak the truth.
There was an Attican was shipwrecked on
The Isle of Andros; with him was this girl.
He chanced to light upon the father of
Our Chrysis—in extremity of ill.

Sim. Fables.

Chr. ⁠Let him speak.

Cri. ⁠But wherefore interrupt?

Chr. Proceed.

Cri. ⁠Her father was my relative,
And in his house he died, declaring he
Was Attican.

Chr. ⁠His name—his name?

Cri. ⁠Was Phania.

Chr. Ah, I am slain.

Cri. ⁠Doubtless, 'twas Phania,
Moreover of the burgh Rhamnusium.

Chr. Oh, Jupiter!

Cri. ⁠It is well-known in Andros.

Sim. And grant it may be so. Now tell me, Crito,
What did he say of her? Was she his child?

Cri. No.

Chr. ⁠And whose?

Cri. ⁠His brother's.

Chr. ⁠And my daughter!

Cri. How—what!

Sim. ⁠What!

Pam. ⁠Lift up your ears, O Pamphilé.

Sim. Do you believe this, Chremes?

Chr. ⁠Yes. Phania—
He was my brother.