52
Ah, but I intend to marry next year; my child—which is to be a boy—I hereby name Timon.
52
I doubt whether you will feel like marrying, my man, when I have given you—this!
52
Oh Lord! what is that for? ... You are plotting a coup d’état, you Timon; you assault free men, and you are neither a free man nor a citizen yourself. You shall soon be called to account for your crimes; it was you set fire to the Acropolis, for one thing.
53
Why, you scoundrel, the Acropolis has not been set on fire; you are a common blackmailer.
53
You got your gold by breaking into the Treasury.
53
It has not been broken into, either; you are not even plausible.
53
There is time for the burglary yet; meantime, you are in possession of the treasures.
53
Well, here is another for you, anyhow.
53
Oh! oh! my back!
53
Don’t make such a noise, if you don’t want a third. It would be too absurd, you know, if I could cut two companies of Spartans to pieces without my armour, and not be able to” give a single little scoundrel his deserts. My Olympic boxing and wrestling victories would be thrown away.
54
Whom have we now? is this Thrasycles the philosopher? sure enough it is. A halo of beard, eyebrows an inch above their place, superiority in his air, a look that might storm heaven, locks waving to the wind—’tis a very Boreas or Triton from Zeuxis’ pencil. This hero of the careful get-up, the solemn gait, the plain attire—in the morning he will utter a thousand maxims, expounding Virtue, arraigning self-indulgence, lauding simplicity; and then, when he gets to dinner after his bath, his servant fills him a bumper (he prefers it neat), and draining this Lethe-draught he proceeds to turn his morning maxims inside out; he swoops like a hawk on dainty dishes, elbows his neighbour aside, fouls his beard with trickling sauce, laps like a dog, with his nose in his plate, as if he expected to find Virtue there, and runs his finger all round the bowl, not to lose a drop of the gravy.
