Horace: Lucky people! Now I'm the sole survivor. Do for me! The melancholy fate draws near which a fortune-telling Sabellian crone once prophesied in my boyhood: "This lad neither dread poison nor hostile sword shall take off, nor pleurisy, nor cough, nor crippling gout. A chatterbox will one day be his death!"
Bore (realising that, as it is the hour for opening the law course, he must answer to his recognisances, or lose a suit to which he is a party): Oblige me with your assistance in court for a little.
Horace: Deuce take me if I've strength to hang about so long, or know any law. Besides, I'm hurrying, you know where.
Bore: I'm in a fix what to do—whether to give you up or my case.
Horace: Me, please.
Bore: Shan't! (Starts ahead of Horace, who, beaten at every point, has to follow. The other opens conversation again.) On what footing do you and Mæcenas stand?
Horace (haughtily): He has a select circle, and thoroughly sound judgment.
Bore (unimpressed): Ah! No one ever made a smarter use of his chances. You'd have a powerful supporter, a capable understudy, if you'd agree to introduce your humble servant. Deuce take me if you wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.
Horace (disgusted): We don't live on the terms you fancy. No establishment is more honest than his, or more foreign to such intrigues. It does me no harm, I tell you, because this one has more money or learning than I. Everybody has his own place.
Bore: A tall story—hardly believable.