Here 's a good purse of scudi: off with you,
Lest of that shrug come what God only knows!
The scudi—friend, they 're trash—no thanks, I beg!
Take the north gate,—for San Vitale's suburb,
Whose double taxes you appealed against,
In discomposure at your ill-success
Is apt to stone you: there, there—only go!
Beside, Eulalia here looks sleepily.
Shake ... oh, you hurt me, so you squeeze my wrist!"
—Is it not thus you 'll speak, adventurous friend?