SAUSAGE-SELLER. 'Twas the goddess who came from the head of Zeus that mixed this liquor with her own hands.
CLEON. Hold, here is a piece of good rich cake.
SAUSAGE-SELLER. But I offer you an entire cake.
CLEON. But you cannot offer him stewed hare as I do.
SAUSAGE-SELLER. Ah! great gods! stewed hare! where shall I find it? Oh! brain of mine, devise some trick!
CLEON. Do you see this, poor fellow?
SAUSAGE-SELLER. A fig for that! Here are folk coming to seek me.
CLEON. Who are they?
SAUSAGE-SELLER. Envoys, bearing sacks bulging with money.
CLEON. (Hearing money mentioned Clean turns his head, and Agoracritus seizes the opportunity to snatch away the stewed hare.) Where, where, I say?