Philos. What are you doing, Parrhesiades? do you think you are going to fish up stones from the Pelasgicum?
Par. Hush! I wait till I get a bite. Posidon, the fisherman’s friend, and you, dear Amphitrite, send me good fishing!
Ah, a fine bass; no, it is not; it is a gilthead.
Expo. A shark, you mean; there, see, he is getting near the hook, open-mouthed too. He scents the gold; now he is close—touching—he has it; up with him!
Par. Give me a hand with the line, Exposure; here he is. Now, my best of fishes, what do we make of you? Salmo Cynicus, that is what you are. Good gracious, what teeth! Aha, my brave fish, caught snapping up trifles in the rocks, where you thought you could lurk unobserved? But now you shall hang by the gills for every one to look at you. Pull out hook and bait. Why, the hook is bare; he has not been long assimilating the figs, eh? and the gold has gone down too.
Diog. Make him disgorge; we want the bait for some more.
Par. There, then. Now, Diogenes, do you know who it is? has the fellow anything to do with you?
Diog. Nothing whatever.
Par. Well, what do you put him at? threepence was the price fixed the other day.
Diog. Too much. His flavour and his looks are intolerable—a coarse worthless brute. Drop him head first over the rock, and catch another. But take care your rod does not bend to breaking point.