Ant. A shrewd, convincing argument! this fellow has a notable reach with him. Go, bid him enter. A hundred to one some fool has them in possession that knows not their value: it may be a man may purchase them for little or nothing——
Enter Lionel, like a scholar, with two books.
Come near, friend, let me see what you have there. Umph, 'tis, as I said, they are of the old Roman binding. What's the price of these?
Lio. I would be loth, sir, to sell them under rate, only to merit laughter for my rashness; therefore I thought good to bestow them on you, and refer myself to your wisdom and free nature for my satisfaction.
Ant. You say well; then am I bound again in conscience to deal justly with you: will five hundred crowns content you?
Lio. I'll demand no more, sir.
Ant. Petro, see them delivered. Now I need not fear to tell you what they are: this is a book de Republica, 'tis Marcus Tullius Cicero's own hand writing; I have some other books of his penning give me assurance of it.[341]
Pet. And what's the other, sir?
Ant. This other is a book of mathematics, that was long lost in darkness, and afterwards restored by Ptolemy.
Lio. I wonder, sir, unless you were Time's secretary, how you should arrive to this intelligence.