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. I will punish your self-importance; I will crush you with imposts;
I will have you inscribed on the list of the rich.