_Tim_. Why, you scoundrel, the Acropolis has not been set on fire; you
are a common blackmailer.

_Dem_. You got your gold by breaking into the Treasury.

_Tim_. It has not been broken into, either; you are not even
plausible.

_Dem_. There is time for the burglary yet; meantime, you are in
possession of the treasures.

_Tim_. Well, here is another for you, anyhow.

_Dem_. Oh! oh! my back!

_Tim_. 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.

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