_Her_. Oh, have it your own way, Lycinus. Well then, we have got to live a
hundred years, and go through all this trouble? There is no other road to
philosophy?

_Ly_. No, none; and we need not complain; as you very truly said, _ars
longa, vita brevis_. But I do not know what has come over you; you now
make a grievance of it, if you cannot before set of sun develop into a
Chrysippus, a Plato, a Pythagoras.

_Her_. You trap me, and drive me into a corner, Lycinus; yet I never
provoked you; it is all envy, I know, because I have made some progress
in my studies, whereas you have neglected yourself, when you were old
enough to know better.

_Ly_. Seest, then, thy true course? never mind me, but leave me as a
lunatic to my follies, and you go on your way and accomplish what you
have intended all this time.

_Her_. But you are so masterful, you will not let me make a choice, till I
have proved all.

_Ly_. Why, I confess, you will never get me to budge from that. But when
you call me masterful, it seems to me you blame the blameless, as the poet
says; for I am myself being dragged along by reason, until you bring up
some other reason to release me from durance. And here is reason about to
talk more masterfully still, you will see; but I suppose you will
exonerate it, and blame me.

_Her_. What can it be? I am surprised to hear it still has anything in