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.
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.
World's Greatest Books - Volume 17 - Poetry and Drama
I'll escort you from
here to your destination.
HORACE (_deprecatingly_): No need for you to make such a detour.
(_Inventing fibs as he goes along_) There's someone I want to look
up--a person you don't know, on the other side of the river--yes, far
away--he's confined to bed--near Caesar's Park.
BORE: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll
follow you right there. (HORACE _is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey
when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The_ BORE
_continues_) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly
as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and
more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As
for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!
HORACE (_seizing the chance of interrupting_): Have you a mother--any
relatives to whom your health is of moment?
BORE: Not one left. I've laid them all to rest.
HORACE: Lucky people! Now I'm the sole survivor. 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.
here to your destination.
HORACE (_deprecatingly_): No need for you to make such a detour.
(_Inventing fibs as he goes along_) There's someone I want to look
up--a person you don't know, on the other side of the river--yes, far
away--he's confined to bed--near Caesar's Park.
BORE: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll
follow you right there. (HORACE _is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey
when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The_ BORE
_continues_) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly
as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and
more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As
for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!
HORACE (_seizing the chance of interrupting_): Have you a mother--any
relatives to whom your health is of moment?
BORE: Not one left. I've laid them all to rest.
HORACE: Lucky people! Now I'm the sole survivor. 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.
