Phocion.
I know the Emperor's barber, and he reports it so. Let us trust these shameful disturbances may not incense him too much.
A Citizen.
Alas, alas, that were a pity indeed!
A Second Citizen.
If the Emperor lived here, 'twould bring something in to all of us.
Phocion.
'Twas on that reckoning that I returned here. So now we must do our best, friends; when the Emperor comes past, we must shout lustily both for him and for Apollo.
A Citizen.
[To another.] Who is this Apollo, that people begin to talk so much about?
The Other Citizen.
Why, 'tis the priest of Corinth,—he who watered what the holy Paul had planted.
The First Citizen.
Ay, ay; to be sure; I think I remember now.
Phocion.
No, no, no, 'tis not that Apollo; 'tis another one entirely;—this is the Sun-King—the great lyre-playing Apollo.
