No More Learning

why, indeed, a scavenger told me the same thing.

SAUSAGE-SELLER. Were you not yourself in those days quite red in the
gills with farting?

DEMOS. Why, 'twas a trick worthy of Pyrrandrus! [101]

CLEON. With what other idle trash will you seek to ruin me, you wretch!

SAUSAGE-SELLER. Oh! I shall be more brazen than you, for 'tis the goddess
who has commanded me. [102]

CLEON. No, on my honour, you will not! Here, Demos, feast on this dish;
it is your salary as a dicast, which you gain through me for doing
naught.

SAUSAGE-SELLER. Hold!
here is a little box of ointment to rub into the
sores on your legs.

CLEON. I will pluck out your white hairs and make you young again.

SAUSAGE-SELLER. Take this hare's scut to wipe the rheum from your eyes.

CLEON. When you wipe your nose, clean your fingers on my head.

SAUSAGE-SELLER. No, on mine.

CLEON. On mine. (_To the Sausage-seller. _) I will have you made a
trierarch[103] and you will get ruined through it; I will arrange that
you are given an old vessel with rotten sails, which you will have to
repair constantly and at great cost.

CHORUS. Our man is on the boil; enough, enough, he is boiling over;
remove some of the embers from under him and skim off his threats.

CLEON.