"Ten obols."—"Ten? That's dear: will you take eight?"
"Yes, if one fish will serve you."—"Friend, no jokes;
I am no subject for your mirth."—"Pass on, Sir!
And buy elsewhere."—Now tell me, is not this
Bitterer than gall?—J. A. St. John.
Diphilus. (Book vi. §6, p. 356.)
I once believed the fishmongers at Athens
Were rogues beyond all others. 'Tis not so;
The tribe are all the same, go where you will,
Deceitful, avaricious, plotting knaves,
And rav'nous as wild-beasts. But we have one
Exceeds the rest in baseness, and the wretch
Pretends that he has let his hair grow long
In rev'rence to the gods. The varlet lies.
He bears the marks of justice on his forehead,
Which his locks hide, and therefore they are long.
Accost him thus—"What ask you for that pike?"
"Ten oboli," he answers—not a word
About the currency—put down the cash,
He then objects, and tells you that he meant
The money of Ægina. If there's left
A balance in his hands, he'll pay you down
In Attic oboli, and thus secures
A double profit by the exchange of both.—Anon.
The same.
Troth, in my greener days I had some notion
That here at Athens only, rogues sold fish;
But everywhere, it seems, like wolf or fox
The race is treacherous by nature found.
However, we have one scamp in the agora
Who beats all others hollow. On his head
A most portentous fell of hair nods thick
And shades his brow. Observing your surprise,
He has his reasons pat; it grows forsooth
To form, when shorn, an offering to some god!
But that's a feint; 'tis but to hide the scars
Left by the branding-iron upon his forehead.
