A most portentous fell of hair nods thick
And shades his brow. Observing your surprise,
He has his reasons pat; it grows forsooth
To form, when shorn, an offering to some god!
But that's a feint; 'tis but to hide the scars
Left by the branding-iron upon his forehead.
But, passing that, you ask perchance the price
Of a sea-wolf—"Ten oboli"—very good.
You count the money. "Oh, not those," he cries,
"Æginetan I meant." Still you comply.