A mother, Metrotimé, brings her truant boy, Kottalos, to his schoolmaster Lampriskos to receive a flogging. METROTIMÉ. Flog him, Lampriskos,[266] Across the shoulders, till his wicked soul Is all but out of him. He’s spent my all In playing odd and even: knucklebones Are nothing to him. Why, he hardly knows The door o’ the Letter School. And yet the thirtieth Comes round and I must pay――tears no excuse. His writing-tablet, which I take the trouble To wax anew each month, lies unregarded I’ the corner. If by chance he deigns to touch it, He scowls like Hades, then puts nothing right But smears it out and out. He doesn’t know A letter, till you scream it twenty times. The other day his father made him spell MARON; the rascal made it SIMON; dolt I thought myself to send him to a school: Ass-tending is his trade. Another time We set him to recite some childish piece; He sifts it out like water through a crack, “Apollo,” pause, then “hunter.” The poor mother goes on to say that it is useless to scold the boy; for, if she does, he promptly runs away from home to sponge upon his grandmother, or sits up on the roof out of the way, like an ape, breaking the tiles, which is expensive for his parents. Yet he knows The seventh and the twentieth of the month, Whole holidays, as if he read the stars. He lies awake o’ nights adreaming of them. But, so may yonder Muses prosper you, Give him in stripes no less than―――― LAMPRISKOS. Right you are. Here, Euthias, Kokkalos, and Phillos, hoist him Upon your backs.[267] I like your goings on, My boy. I’ll teach you manners. Where’s my strap, The stinging cow’s-tail! KOTTALOS. By the Muses, Sir, Not with the stinger. LAMP. Then you shouldn’t be So naughty. KOTT. O, how many will you give me? LAMP. Your mother fixes that. KOTT. How many, mother? METR. As many as your wicked hide can bear. KOTT. Stop, that’s enough, stop. LAMP. You should stop your ways. KOTT. I’ll never do it more, I promise you. LAMP. Don’t talk so much, or else I’ll bring a gag. KOTT. I won’t talk, only do not kill me, please. LAMP. Let him down, boys. METR. No, leather him till sunset. LAMP. Why, he’s as mottled as a water-snake. METR. Well, when he’s done his reading, good or bad, Give him a trifle more, say twenty strokes. KOTT. Yah! METR. I’ll go home and get a pair of fetters. Our Lady Muses, whom he scorned, shall see Their scorner hobble here with shackled feet.