LACON.
Why be so hot? Art thou on fire? First prythee take thy seat
'Neath this wild woodland olive: thy tones will sound more sweet.
Here falls a cold rill drop by drop, and green grass-blades uprear
Their heads, and fallen leaves are thick, and locusts prattle here.
COMETAS.
Hot I am not; but hurt I am, and sorely, when I think
That thou canst look me in the face and never bleach nor blink—
Me, thine own boyhood's tutor! Go, train the she-wolf's brood:
Train dogs—that they may rend thee! This, this is gratitude!