Mer. O those brave gammons that I once enjoyed!
Car. Don't gammon me—be off with you to—heaven!
Mercury begs him at last, for old acquaintance' sake, and in remembrance of the many little scrapes which his pilfering propensities would have brought him into with his master, but that he, the god of craft, helped him out of them,—to have a little fellow-feeling for a servant out of place and thrown upon his own finding. Is there no place for him in Chremylus's household? What? says Cario; would he leave Olympus and take service with mortals? Certainly he would—the living and the perquisites are so much better. Would he turn deserter? asks the other (deserter being a word of abomination to Greek ears). The god replies in words which seem to be a quotation or a parody from some of the tragic poets—
That soil is fatherland which feeds us best.
The dialogue which follows is an amusing play upon the various offices assigned to Mercury, who was a veritable Jack-of-all-trades in the popular theology. The humour is very much lost in any English version, however free:—
Car. What place would suit you, now, suppose we hired you?
Mer. I'll turn my hand to anything you please;
You know I'm called the "Turner."
Car. Yes, but now
Luck's on our side, we want no turns at present.
Mer. I'll make your bargains for you.
Car. Thankye, no—
Now we've grown rich, we don't much care for bargains.
