Deuce take me if you
wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.
wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.
World's Greatest Books - Volume 17 - Poetry and Drama
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. I'll see him
home.
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. I'll see him
home.
