forehead, to make himself look grander, I suppose. What's the matter now? You're crying, you rascal, are you—afraid of death? Make haste on board, will you?
Men. He's got something now under his arm.
Merc. What is it, Menippus?
Men. Flattery it is, Mercury—and a very profitable article he found it, while he was alive.
Philosopher (in a fury). And you, Menippus—leave your lawless tongue behind you, and your cursed independence, and mocking laugh; you're the only one of the party who dares laugh.
Merc. (laughing). No, no, Menippus—they're very light, and take little room; besides, they are good things on a voyage. But you, Mr Orator there, throw away your rhetorical flourishes, and antitheses, and parallelisms, and barbarisms, and all that heavy wordy gear of yours.
Orator. There, then—there they go!
Merc. All right. Now then, slip the moorings. Haul that plank aboard—up anchor, and make sail. Mind your helm, master! And a good voyage to us!—What are you howling about, you fools? You, Philosopher, specially? Now that you've had your beard cropped?
Phil. Because, dear Mercury, I always thought the soul had been immortal.
Men. He's lying! It's something else that troubles him, most likely.
Merc. What's that?
Men. That he shall have no more expensive suppers
