Socrates. Stone the miscreant; stone him with many stones; clod him with clods; pot him with pots; let the culprit feel your sticks; leave him no way out. At him, Plato! come, Chrysippus, let him have it! Shoulder to shoulder, close the ranks;
Let wallet succor wallet, staff aid staff!
We are all parties in this war; not one of us but he has assailed. You, Diogenes, now if ever is the time for that stick of yours; stand firm, all of you. Let him reap the fruits of his revilings. What, Epicurus, Aristippus, tired already? 'tis too soon; ye sages,
Be men; resume that erstwhile furious wrath.
Aristotle, one more sprint. There! the brute is caught; we have you, villain. You shall soon know a little more about the characters you have assailed. Now, what shall we do with him? it must be rather an elaborate execution, to meet all our claims upon him; he owes a separate death to every one of us.
First Philosopher. Impale him, say I.
Second Philosopher. Yes, but scourge him first.
Third Philosopher. Tear out his eyes.
Fourth Philosopher. Ah, but first out with the offending tongue.
Socrates. What say you, Empedocles?