"Tryphœna, you do from the bottom of your heart, as you are in perfect mind, promise never to complain of any injury you have receiv'd from Gito; nor mention, upbraid him with, or study to revenge directly or indirectly any action of his before this day; and to prevent your forcing him to an unwilling compliance, be it further agreed, that you never kiss, coll, or bring him to a closer hug, without the forfeiture of 100 denarii: And for better security, that you always pay your mony, before you have your ware. "Item, you Lycas, from the bottom of your heart, as you are in perfect mind; do promise never to reproach, or insultingly treat Encolpius, either in words, or gestures: But, on the forfeiture of 200 denarii for each time you abuse him, behind his back." Conditions thus agreed on, we laid down our arms: And, least any grudge might still remain, wipe off the memory of all things past, in repeated kisses. All quarrels expir'd in universal shouts, and a sumptuous banquet that followed, spread equal mirth through the whole company: The vessel rung with songs, the ensigns of their joy: and the occasion of a sudden calm, gave other diversions: Here a little artist bob'd for fish, that rising, seem'd with haste to meet their ruin: There another draws the unwilling prey, that he had betray'd on the hook, with an inviting bait: When looking up, we saw sea-birds sitting on the sail-yard, about which, one skill'd in that art having plac'd lime-twigs, made 'em his booty. Their downy feathers, the air whirl'd about: The other, the sea vainly tost too and fro. Now Lycas began to be friends with me: and Tryphœna, as a mark of her love, threw the bottom of her wine upon Gito: At what time, Eumolpus, quite drunk, aim'd at rallery on those that were bald and branded; till having spent his life-less stock, he return'd to his verses; and designing an elegy on the loss of hair, thus began. Nature's chief ornament, the hair is lost, Those vernal locks, feel winter's blast: Now the bald temples mown their banish'd shade, And bristles shine o' the sun-burnt head. The joys, deceitful nature does first pay Our age, it snatches first away. Unhappy mortal, that but now The lovely grace of hair, did'st know: Bright as the sun's or Cynthia's beams, Now worse than brass, and only seems Like th' mushroom, that in gardens springs. From sporting girls, you'll frighted run, And that death will the sooner come: Know that part of your head is gone. He wou'd have condemn'd us to hear more, and I believe worse than the former; if an attendant of Tryphœna, had not disturb'd him: who taking Gito aside, dress'd him up in her mistresses tower; and to restore him perfectly to his former figure, drawing false eye-brows out of her patch-box, placed 'em so exactly, Nature might have mistaken 'em for her own work.