One more bon mot, and I leave Athens to the plaudits of an appreciative public.
The Presbyterian divine, running his thin fingers through his thin hair, exclaimed, in a thin voice: 'Brethren! ye are the salts of the earth.' 'The salts,' though as old as the Gospel, have not yet lost their freshness.'
Exit Athens and fresh salt.
Ye Knight Of Ye Golden Cyrcle.
A veray parfit gentil knight,
Thatte of ye Golden Cyrcle hight,
One day yridden forth;
But ne to finde a fayre mayde,
He went on errants of his trade,
To fight or filch ye North.