You'd have a
powerful
supporter, a capable understudy, if
you'd agree to introduce your humble servant.
you'd agree to introduce your humble servant.
World's Greatest Books - Volume 17 - Poetry and Drama
Do for _me_!
The
melancholy fate draws near which a fortune-telling Sabellian crone once
prophesied in my boyhood: "This lad neither dread poison nor hostile
sword shall take off, nor pleurisy, nor cough, nor crippling gout. A
chatterbox will one day be his death! "
BORE (_realising that, as it is the hour for opening the law course,
he must answer to his recognisances, or lose a suit to which he is a
party_): Oblige me with your assistance in court for a little.
HORACE: Deuce take me if I've strength to hang about so long, or know
any law. Besides, I'm hurrying, you know where.
BORE: I'm in a fix what to do--whether to give you up or my case.
HORACE: Me, please.
BORE: Shan't! (_Starts ahead of_ HORACE, _who, beaten at every point,
has to follow. The other opens conversation again_. ) On what footing do
you and Maecenas stand?
HORACE (_haughtily_): He has a select circle, and thoroughly sound
judgment.
BORE (_unimpressed_): Ah! No one ever made a smarter use of his
chances.
You'd have a powerful supporter, a capable understudy, if
you'd agree to introduce your humble servant. Deuce take me if you
wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.
HORACE (_disgusted_): We don't live on the terms _you_ fancy. No
establishment is more honest than his, or more foreign to such
intrigues. It does me no harm, I tell you, because this one has more
money or learning than I. Everybody has his own place.
BORE: A tall story--hardly believable.
HORACE: A fact, nevertheless.
BORE: You fire my anxiety all the more to be one of his intimate
friends.
HORACE (_sarcastically_): You've only got to wish. Such are _your_
qualities, you'll carry him by storm.
BORE (_on whom the irony is lost_): I'll not fail myself. I'll bribe
his slaves. If I find the door shut in my face I'll not give up. I'll
watch for lucky moments. I'll meet him at street corners.
melancholy fate draws near which a fortune-telling Sabellian crone once
prophesied in my boyhood: "This lad neither dread poison nor hostile
sword shall take off, nor pleurisy, nor cough, nor crippling gout. A
chatterbox will one day be his death! "
BORE (_realising that, as it is the hour for opening the law course,
he must answer to his recognisances, or lose a suit to which he is a
party_): Oblige me with your assistance in court for a little.
HORACE: Deuce take me if I've strength to hang about so long, or know
any law. Besides, I'm hurrying, you know where.
BORE: I'm in a fix what to do--whether to give you up or my case.
HORACE: Me, please.
BORE: Shan't! (_Starts ahead of_ HORACE, _who, beaten at every point,
has to follow. The other opens conversation again_. ) On what footing do
you and Maecenas stand?
HORACE (_haughtily_): He has a select circle, and thoroughly sound
judgment.
BORE (_unimpressed_): Ah! No one ever made a smarter use of his
chances.
You'd have a powerful supporter, a capable understudy, if
you'd agree to introduce your humble servant. Deuce take me if you
wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.
HORACE (_disgusted_): We don't live on the terms _you_ fancy. No
establishment is more honest than his, or more foreign to such
intrigues. It does me no harm, I tell you, because this one has more
money or learning than I. Everybody has his own place.
BORE: A tall story--hardly believable.
HORACE: A fact, nevertheless.
BORE: You fire my anxiety all the more to be one of his intimate
friends.
HORACE (_sarcastically_): You've only got to wish. Such are _your_
qualities, you'll carry him by storm.
BORE (_on whom the irony is lost_): I'll not fail myself. I'll bribe
his slaves. If I find the door shut in my face I'll not give up. I'll
watch for lucky moments. I'll meet him at street corners.
