wretched-looking body—unless one were to make a ditcher or a water-carrier of him?
Merc. Well, or if you employ him as door-porter, you'll find him more trustworthy than any dog. In fact, 'Dog' is his name.
Cust. Where does he come from, and what does he profess?
Merc. Ask him—that will be most satisfactory.
Cust. I'm afraid of him, he looks so savage and sulky; perhaps he'll bark if I go near him, or even bite me, I shouldn't wonder. Don't you see how he handles his club, and knits his brows, and looks threatening and angry?
Merc. Oh, there's no fear—he's quite tame.
Cust. (approaching Diogenes cautiously). First, my good fellow, of what country are you?
Diogenes (surlily). All countries.
Cust. How can that be?
Diog. I'm a citizen of the world.
Cust. What master do you profess to follow?
Diog. Hercules.
Cust. Why don't you adopt the lion's hide, then? I see you have the club.
Diog. Here's my lion's hide,—this old cloak. Like Hercules, I wage war against pleasure; but not under orders, as he did, but of my own free will. My choice is to cleanse human life.
Cust. A very good choice too. But what do you profess to know best? or of what art are you master?
Diog. I am the liberator of mankind, the physician
