Behind their hands indulge in sorrel chaff,
And venomous invective.
And he, the hard-faced Cleon with his ring
Of minor satellites? Could glances sting
His were not ineffective!
"Crouched in yon corner, huddled chin to knees,
Like some old lion sore and ill at ease
Left foodless in the jungle,
Sits Grumper, growling oaths beneath his breath
At Cleon, who—to him—sums party-death