O, what a fool is he, Who dreams about stability, or thinks, Good easy dolt! that aught in life's secure! Security!—either a loan is ask'd; Then house and all that it contains are gone At one fell sweep—or you've a suit to meet, And Law and Ruin ever are twin-brothers.— Art named to a general's post? fines, penalties, And debts upon the heels of office follow. Do the stage-charges fall upon you? good: The chorus must go clad in spangled robes, Yourself may pace in rags. Far happier he Who's named a trierarch:—he buys a halter And wisely balks at once th' expensive office.— Sleeping or waking, on the sea or land, Among your menials or before your foes, Danger and Insecurity are with you. The very table, charged with viands, is Mere mock'ry oft;—gives promise to the eye, And breaks it to the lip. Is there nought safe then? Yes, by the gods,—that which has pass'd the teeth, And is in a state of deglutition: reckon Yourself secure of that, and that alone: All else is fleet, precarious, insecure.—MITCHELL. * * * * * ALEXIS. (Book iii. § 86, p. 194.) _A._ I must have all accounted for: Item by item, charge by charge; or look ye:— There's not a stiver to be had from me. _B._ 'Tis but a fair demand. _A._ What hoa! within there! [_Calls to his servant._] My style and tablets. (_Style and tablets are brought._) Now, Sir, to your reckoning. _B._ To salt a herring—price—two farthings— _A._ Good. [_Writes._] _B._ To mussels—three— _A._ No villany as yet. [_Writes._] _B._ Item, to eels—one obol— _A._ Still you're guiltless. [_Writes._] _B._ Next came the radishes; yourselves allow'd— _A._ And we retract not—they were delicate And good. _B._ For these I touch two obols. _A._ [_Aside._] Tush! The praise is in the bill—better our palates Had been less riotous—onward. _B._ To a rand Of tunny-fish—this charge will break a sixpence. _A._ Dealst on the square? no filching?—no purloining?— _B._ No, not a doit—thou'rt green, good fellow, green; And a mere novice yet in market-prices. Why, man, the palmer-worms have fix'd their teeth Upon the kitchen-herbs. _A._ Ergo, salt fish Bears twice its usual price—call you that logic? _B._ Nay, if you've doubts—to the fishmonger straight,— He lives and will resolve them.—To a conger-eel— Ten obols. _A._ I have nothing to object: Proceed. _B._ Item, broil'd fish—a drachma. _A._ Fie on't!—