_Sc_. I use them to weigh arguments in, and get them evenly balanced, They must be absolutely equal—not a feather-weight to choose between them; then, and not till then, can I make uncertain which is right. _Ninth D_. What else can you turn your hand to? _Sc_. Anything; except catching a runaway. _Ninth D_. And why not that? _Sc_. Because, friend, everything eludes my grasp. _Ninth D_. I believe you. A slow, lumpish fellow you seem to be. And what is the end of your knowledge? _Sc_. Ignorance. Deafness. Blindness. _Ninth D_. What! sight and hearing both gone? _Sc_. And with them judgement and perception, and all, in short, that distinguishes man from a worm. _Ninth D_. You are worth money!—What shall we say for him? _Her_. Four pounds. _Ninth D_. Here it is. Well, fellow; so you are mine? _Sc_. I doubt it. _Ninth D_. Nay, doubt it not! You are bought and paid for. _Sc_. It is a difficult case…. I reserve my decision. _Ninth D_. Now, come along with me, like a good slave. _Sc_. But how am I to know whether what you say is true? _Ninth D_. Ask the auctioneer. Ask my money. Ask the spectators. _Sc_. Spectators? But can we be sure there are any? _Ninth D_. Oh, I'll send you to the treadmill. That will convince you with a vengeance that I am your master. _Sc_. Reserve your decision. _Ninth D_. Too late. It is given. _Her_. Stop that wrangling and go with your purchaser. Gentlemen, we hope to see you here again to-morrow, when we shall be offering some lots suitable for plain men, artisans, and shopkeepers. F. THE FISHER A RESURRECTION PIECE _Lucian or Parrhesiades. Socrates, Empedocles. Plato. Chrysippus. Diogenes. Aristotle. Other Philosophers. Platonists. Pythagoreans. Stoics. Peripatetics. Epicureans. Academics. Philosophy. Truth. Temperance. Virtue. Syllogism. Exposure. Priestess of Athene_. _Soc_. Stone the miscreant; stone him with many stones; clod him with clods; pot him with pots; let the culprit feel your sticks; leave him no way out. At him, Plato! come, Chrysippus, let him have it! Shoulder to shoulder, close the ranks; Let wallet succour wallet, staff aid staff! We are all parties in this war; not one of us but he has assailed. You, Diogenes, now if ever is the time for that stick of yours; stand firm, all of you. Let him reap the fruits of his reveling. What, Epicurus, Aristippus, tired already? 'tis too soon; ye sages, Be men; relume that erstwhile furious wrath! Aristotle, one more sprint. There! the brute is caught; we have you, villain. You shall soon know a little more about the characters you have assailed. Now, what shall we do with him? it must be rather an elaborate execution, to meet all our claims upon him; he owes a separate death to every one of us. _First Phil_. Impale him, say I. _Second Phil_. Yes, but scourge him first. _Third Phil_. Tear out his eyes. _Fourth Phil_. Ah, but first out with the offending tongue. _Soc_. What say you, Empedocles?