But, passing that, you ask perchance the price
Of a sea-wolf—"Ten oboli"—very good.
You count the money. "Oh, not those," he cries,
"Æginetan I meant." Still you comply.
But if you trust him with a larger piece,
And there be change to give; mark how the knave
Now counts in Attic coin, and thus achieves
A two-fold robbery in the same transaction!
J. A. St. John.
Xenarchus. (Book vi. § 6, p. 357.)
Poets indeed! I should be glad to know
Of what they have to boast. Invention—no!
They invent nothing, but they pilfer much,
Change and invert the order, and pretend
To pass it off for new. But fishmongers
Are fertile in resources, they excel
All our philosophers in ready wit
And sterling impudence. The law forbids,
And strictly too, to water their stale fish—
How do they manage to evade the fine?
Why thus—when one of them perceives the board
Begins to be offensive, and the fish
Look dry and change their colour, he begins
A preconcerted quarrel with his neighbour.
They come to blows;—he soon affects to be
Most desperately beaten, and falls down,
As if unable to support himself,
Gasping for breath;—another, who the while
(Knowing the secret) was prepared to act,
Seizes a jar of water, aptly placed,
And scatters a few drops upon his friend,
Then empties the whole vessel on the fish,
Which makes them look so fresh that you would swear
They were just taken from the sea,—Anon.
The same.
Commend me for invention to the rogue
Who sells fish in the agora. He knows,—
In fact there's no mistaking,—that the law
