Horace: A fact, nevertheless.
Bore: You fire my anxiety all the more to be one of his intimate friends.
Horace (sarcastically): You've only got to wish. Such are your qualities, you'll carry him by storm.
Bore (on whom the irony is lost): I'll not fail myself. I'll bribe his slaves. If I find the door shut in my face I'll not give up. I'll watch for lucky moments. I'll meet him at street corners. I'll see him home. Life grants man nothing without hard work.
[Enter Fuscus, a friend of Horace. Knowing the Bore's ways, he reads the situation. Horace furtively tugs at Fuscus's gown, pinches him, nods and winks to Fuscus to rescue him. Fuscus smiles, and with a mischievous fondness for a joke, pretends he does not understand.
Horace (angry with Fuscus): Of course, you did say you wanted to talk over something with me in private.
Fuscus: Ah, yes, I remember; but I'll tell you at a more convenient season. (Inventing an excuse with mock solemnity.) To-day is the "Thirtieth Sabbath." You wouldn't affront the circumcised Jews, would you?
Horace: I have no scruples.
Fuscus: But I have. I'm a slightly weaker brother—one, of many. Pardon, I'll talk about it another time.
[Exit, leaving Horace like a victim under the knife.