perhaps as fast as they will. At last it is settled that he is to sit on the tyrant's back; "and kick him well," says Clotho. The Cynic now takes up the dialogue. He, like his fellow-philosopher Menippus, has no money to pay his passage.
Cyniscus. I'll tell you the plain truth, Charon—I haven't a penny to pay for my passage: nothing in the world but my scrip and staff here. But I'm quite ready to pump or to row: you shall have no reason to complain, if you can find me a good strong oar.
Charon. Pull away, then. I must be content to get that much out of you.
Cyn. Shall I give you a song?
Cha. Well, do; if you know a good sea-stave.
Cyn. I know plenty, Charon. But these fellows are blubbering so loud, they'll drown my voice.
Dead men, in discordant chorus. O my riches!—O my lands!—Oh, what a beautiful house I've left behind me!—Alas! for all the money my heir will squander!—Alas, my poor dear children!—Ah! who'll gather the grapes from those vines I planted last year?
Merc. Have you nothing to lament, Micyllus? Indeed it's against all rule for any one to make this voyage without a few tears.
Micyllus. Nonsense! I've nothing to cry for, on such a pleasant voyage.
Merc. Nay, just cry a little, do—just to keep up the custom.
Mic. Very well, if you wish it, Mercury—here goes.—O my leather-parings! O my old shoes! Alas!
