_Pro_. That is true; he shall answer it. _Me_. No, no, my dear sir; Paris surely is the man; he outraged all rights in carrying off his host's wife with him. _He_ deserves throttling, if you like, and not from you only, but from Greeks and barbarians as well, for all the deaths he brought upon them. _Pro_. Ah, now I have it. Here, you—you _Paris! you_ shall not escape my clutches. _Pa_. Oh, come, sir, you will never wrong one of the same gentle craft as yourself. Am I not a lover too, and a subject of your deity? against love you know (with the best will in the world) how vain it is to strive; 'tis a spirit that draws us whither it will. _Pro_. There is reason in that. Oh, would that I had Love himself here in these hands! _Aea_. Permit me to charge myself with his defence. He does not absolutely deny his responsibility for Paris's love; but that for your death he refers to yourself, Protesilaus. You forgot all about your bride, fell in love with fame, and, directly the fleet touched the Troad, took that rash senseless leap, which brought you first to shore and to death. _Pro_. Now it is my turn to correct, Aeacus. The blame does not rest with me, but with Fate; so was my thread spun from the beginning. _Aea_. Exactly so; then why blame our good friends here? H. XX _Menippus. Aeacus. Various Shades_ _Me_. In Pluto's name, Aeacus, show me all the sights of Hades. _Aea_. That would be rather an undertaking, Menippus. However, you shall see the principal things. Cerberus here you know already, and the ferryman who brought you over. And you saw the Styx on your way, and Pyriphlegethon. _Me_. Yes, and you are the gate-keeper; I know all that; and I have seen the King and the Furies. But show me the men of ancient days, especially the celebrities. _Aea_. This is Agamemnon; this is Achilles; near him, Idomeneus; next comes Odysseus; then Ajax, Diomede, and all the great Greeks. _Me_. Why, Homer, Homer, what is this? All your great heroes flung down upon the earth, shapeless, undistinguishable; mere meaningless dust; 'strengthless heads,' and no mistake.—Who is this one, Aeacus? _Aea_. That is Cyrus; and here is Croesus; beyond him Sardanapalus, and beyond him again Midas. And yonder is Xerxes. _Me_. Ha! and it was before this creature that Greece trembled? this is our yoker of Hellesponts, our designer of Athos-canals?—Croesus too! a sad spectacle! As to Sardanapalus, I will lend him a box on the ear, with your permission. _Aea_. And crack his skull, poor dear! Certainly not. _Me_. Then I must content myself with spitting in his ladyship's face. _Aea_. Would you like to see the philosophers? _Me_. I should like it of all things. _Aea_. First comes Pythagoras. _Me_. Good-day, Euphorbus, _alias_ Apollo, _alias_ what you will. _Py_. Good-day, Menippus. _Me_. What, no golden thigh nowadays? _Py_. Why, no. I wonder if there is anything to eat in that wallet of yours? _Me_. Beans, friend; you don't like beans.