Clo. And the one murdered by his wife and her paramour?
Her. Straight in front of you.
Clo. Now the victims of the law,—the cudgelled and the crucified. And where are those sixteen who were killed by robbers?
Her. Here; you may know them by their wounds. Am I to bring the women too?
Clo. Yes, certainly; and all who were shipwrecked; it is the same kind of death. And those who died of fever, bring them too, the doctor Agathocles and all. Then there was a Cynic philosopher, who was to have succumbed to a dinner with Dame Hecate, eked out with sacrificial eggs and a raw cuttlefish; where is he?
Cy. Here I stand this long time, my good Clotho.—Now what had I done to deserve such a weary spell of life? You gave me pretty nearly a spindleful of it. I often tried to cut the thread and away; but somehow it never would give.
Clo. I left you as a censor and physician of human frailties; pass on, and good luck to you.
Cy. No, by Zeus! First let us see our captive safe on board. Your judgement might be perverted by his entreaties.
Clo. Let me see; who is he?
Her. Megapenthes, son of Lacydes; tyrant.