But Phrasilas began a second little couplet, with a suave, ironical intonation.
“Seso, when you think fit to give us the pleasure of judging Timon, whether to applaud him, as he deserves, or to blame him, unjustly in my opinion, remember that he is an invisible being and that the nature of his soul is hidden from us. It has no existence in itself, or at least we cannot know it; but it reflects the souls of those that mirror themselves in it, and changes its aspect when it changes its place. Last night it resembled you exactly; I am not astonished you were pleased with it. Just now it took the image of Philodemos; that is why you have just said it belied itself. Now it certainly does not belie itself, because it does not affirm itself. You see my dear, that we ought to beware of rash judgments.”
Timon shot a glance of irritation at Phrasilas, but he reserved his reply.
“However that may be,” answered Seso, “there are four of us courtesans here, and we intend to direct the conversation, in order that we may not resemble pink children who only open their mouths to drink milk. Faustina, you arrived the last, please begin.”
“Very good,” said Naukrates. “Choose for us, Faustina. What shall we talk about?”
The young Italian woman turned her head, raised her eyes, blushed, and with an undulation of her whole body, sighed:
“Love.”
“A very pretty subject,” said Seso, trying not to laugh.
But no one took it up.