Nought rests in perpetuity; nor may we
Call aught our own, save what the belly gives
A local habitation: for the rest—
What's Codrus? dust. What Pericles? a clod.
And noble Cymon?—tut, my feet walk over him. —Mitchell.
Machon. (Book viii. § 26, p. 538.)
Of all fish-eaters
None sure excell'd the lyric bard Philoxenus.
'Twas a prodigious twist! At Syracuse