_Clo_. The seven who killed themselves for love. Also Theagenes, the philosopher, for love of the Megarian courtesan. _Her_. Here they are, look. _Clo_. And the rival claimants to thrones, who slew one another? _Her_. Here! _Clo_. And the one murdered by his wife and her paramour? _Her_. Straight in front of you. _Clo_. Now the victims of the law,—the cudgelled and the crucified. And where are those sixteen who were killed by robbers? _Her_. Here; you may know them by their wounds. Am I to bring the women too? _Clo_. Yes, certainly; and all who were shipwrecked; it is the same kind of death. And those who died of fever, bring them too, the doctor Agathocles and all. Then there was a Cynic philosopher, who was to have succumbed to a dinner with Dame Hecate, eked out with sacrificial eggs and a raw cuttlefish; where is he? _Cy_. Here I stand this long time, my good Clotho.—Now what had I done to deserve such a weary spell of life? You gave me pretty nearly a spindleful of it. I often tried to cut the thread and away; but somehow it never would give. _Clo_. I left you as a censor and physician of human frailties; pass on, and good luck to you. _Cy_. No, by Zeus! First let us see our captive safe on board. Your judgement might be perverted by his entreaties. _Clo_. Let me see; who is he? _Her_. Megapenthes, son of Lacydes; tyrant. _Clo_. Come up, Megapenthes. _Me_. Nay, nay, my lady Clotho; suffer me to return for a little while, and I will come of my own accord, without waiting to be summoned. _Clo_. What do you want to go for? _Me_. I crave permission to complete my palace; I left the building half-finished. _Clo_. Pooh! Come along. _Me_. Oh Fate, I ask no long reprieve. Vouchsafe me this one day, that I may inform my wife where my great treasure lies buried. _Clo_. Impossible. 'Tis Fate's decree. _Me_. And all that money is to be thrown away? _Clo_. Not thrown away. Be under no uneasiness. Your cousin Megacles will take charge of it. _Me_. Oh, monstrous! My enemy, whom from sheer good nature I omitted to put to death? _Clo_. The same. He will survive you for rather more than forty years; in the full enjoyment of your harem, your wardrobe, and your treasure. _Me_. It is too bad of you, Clotho, to hand over my property to my worst enemy. _Clo_. My dear sir, it was Cydimachus's property first, surely? You only succeeded to it by murdering him, and butchering his children before his eyes. _Me_. Yes, but it was mine after that. _Clo_. Well, and now your term of possession expires. _Me_. A word in your ear, madam; no one else must hear this.—Sirs, withdraw for a space.—Clotho, if you will let me escape, I pledge myself to give you a quarter of a million sterling this very day. _Clo_. Ha, ha! So your millions are still running in your head? _Me_. Shall I throw in the two mixing-bowls that I got by the murder of Cleocritus? They weigh a couple of tons apiece; refined gold!