Jup. (interrupting him). But now, my son,—I can't tell whether it's the importance of the subject, or the vastness of the assembly (there are a tremendous lot of gods here, you see)—my ideas seem all in a whirl, and a sort of trembling has come over me, and my tongue seems as though it were tied. And the most unlucky thing of all is, I've forgotten the opening paragraph of my speech, which I had all ready prepared beforehand, that my exordium might be as attractive as possible.
Merc. Well, my good sir, you are in a bad way. They all mistrust your silence, and fancy they are to hear something very terrible, and that this is what makes you hesitate.
Jup. Suppose, Mercury, I were to rhapsodise a little,—that introduction, you know, out of Homer?
Merc. Which?
Jup. (declaiming)—
"Now, hear my words, ye gods and she-gods all———"
Merc. No—heaven forbid! you've given us enough of that stuff already. No—pray let that hackneyed style alone. Rather give them a bit out of one of the Philippics of Demosthenes—any one you please; you
Strive as ye may, your mighty master Jove:
But if I choose to make my power be known,
The earth itself and ocean I could raise,
And binding round Olympus' ridge the cord,
Leave them suspended so in middle air."—(Lord Derby.)
Jupiter here dislikes Mercury's allusion to it.
