for the audience will not be resumed till the gallant has his answer.

At rare intervals, at the Saturnalia or the Feast of Minerva, you will be
presented with a sorry cloak, or a worn-out tunic; and a world of
ceremony will go to the presentation. The first who gets wind of the
great man's intention flies to you with the news of what is in store
for you; and the bringer of glad tidings does not go away empty-handed. The
next morning a dozen of them arrive, conveying the present, each with his
tale of how he spoke up for you, or the hints he threw out, or how he was
entrusted with the choice, and chose the best. Not a man of them but
departs with your money in his pocket, grumbling that it is no more.

As to that salary, it will be paid to you sixpence at a time, and there
will be black looks when you ask for it. Still, you must get it somehow.
Ply your patron therefore with flatteries and entreaties, and pay due
observance to his steward, and let it be the kind of observance that
stewards like best; nor must you forget your kind introducer. You do get
something at last; but it all goes to pay the tailor, the doctor, or the
shoemaker, and you are left the proud possessor of nothing at all.

Meanwhile, jealousy is rife, and some slander is perhaps working its
stealthy way to ears which are predisposed to hear anything to your
discredit. For your employer perceives that by this time incessant
fatigues have worn you out; you are crippled, you are good for nothing
more, and gout is coming on. All the profit that was to be had of you, he
has effectually sucked out. Your prime has gone by, your bodily vigour is
exhausted, you are a tattered remnant. He begins to look about for a
convenient dunghill whereon to deposit you, and for an able-bodied
substitute to do your work. You have attempted the honour of one of his
minions: you have been trying to corrupt his wife's maid, venerable