Cha. Never fear. We’ll lash him to the mast.
Me. Look you, I must have the seat of honour.
Clo. And why exactly?
Me. Can you ask? Was I not a tyrant, with a guard of ten thousand men?
Cy. Oh, dullard! And you complain of Carion’s pulling your hair! Wait till you get a taste of this stick; you shall know what it is to be a tyrant.
Me. What, shall a Cynic dare to raise his staff against me? Sirrah, have you forgotten the other day, when I had all but nailed you to the cross, for letting that sharp censorious tongue of yours wag too freely?
Cynic. Well, and now it is your turn to be nailed,—to the mast.
Mi. And what of me, mistress? Am I to be left out of the reckoning? Because I am poor, must I be the last to come aboard?
Clo. Who are you?
Mi. Micyllus the cobbler.