Get. Ah! Damasippus was always witty with his slaves. But I suppose you have not heard of the tumult at Glycerion’s last night. I have heard mention of nought else to-day. Valla has said nothing of the Gauls, and Varus has been silent upon his lawsuit.
Dam. Prithee, now what was the manner of it?
Get. You know Glycerion—the little light-eyed Lesbian. And you know Titus too; and you used to cling as constantly to his side as the lictors to the consul or the duns to Flaminius. Well; he was shivering before her door last night in a thin cloak and sullen mood, with a lute in his hand, and a garland on his head, and perfumes enough on his apparel to convert Tartarus into Ida, and make Atinia herself endurable. A rival comes up; a young fellow in a long robe, masqued, and walking on tiptoes. Swords are drawn—crossed—thrusts given and returned; and Titus discovers that the sober votary of pleasure, the quiet Clodius, the dissipated Hippolytus, is no other than—— Guess now! You may study until a second Virgil rises, until the sun sets at daybreak, until I talk Greek, until my wife talks reason, and you shall never come near the mark. No other, by Jupiter and his transformations, than his studious and stern brother Caius.
Dam. Now, by Pollux, I am glad of it! Caius is a handsome young fellow, and deserves not spoiling by learning, and sobriety.
Get. But the beauty of the jest remains behind. They explain—coalesce—beat the door from its hinges, and find in the citadel Caius’s long-winded and long-bearded tutor, wrinkled Terentius, solacing his tired brain with stewed[Pg 265] vegetables, golden smiles, and a goblet of damaged Falernian.
Dam. I will sacrifice a hecatomb. Thus it should ever be.
Get. But do I tell these stories? Do I repeat what may hurt reputation?—Now Mercury forbid! They told me, and it is indeed true, but do I repeat it?—now Mercury forbid!—that Aurunculeia was seen in the Suburra three nights ago in a mantle and hood, hastening to meet Lentulus, the——
Dam. Aurunculeia! Now, by Olympus and all its sojourners, I will drive the foul falsehood down thy black and calumnious throat. Withered imp of iniquity, cunning scatterer of poison, lie there; I put my sword’s point to thy throat, and recommend to thee silence and thy last testament.
Syr. Noble Damasippus!
Mars. Sweet prince, have mercy!