Art. I remember a hundred and fifty Cilicians, a hundred Sycolatronideans, thirty Sardeans, and threescore Macedonians, you slew in one day.
Pyr. And how many are there in all?
Art. Seven thousand.
Pyr. That’s right. You’re an excellent Arithmetician.
Art. I have ’em in capite, tho’ not in black and white.
Pyr. Truly, a prodigious Memory!
Art. That’s owing to your Table.
Pyr. As long as you proclaim my Honour, you shall never want eating: my Table shall be always free to receive ye.
Art. Then in Cappadocia, Sir, where you wou’d ha’ certainly cut off five hundred Men, had not your Sword been a little blunt; and those but the Relicts of the Infantry you had just defeated,—— [Aside] if there were any such in being.—— But why shou’d I mention these things, when the whole World knows how much the mighty Pyrgopolinices excels the rest of Mortals in Valour, Beauty, and Renown’d Exploits. All the Ladies in Town are ready to run mad for ye; troth, and all the reason i’the World for’t, since you’ve so charming a Countenance. As yesterday, some of ’em catch’d me by the Cloak, and——
Pyr. Prithee, what did they say o’ me? Smiling.