_Me_. It is about my slave Carion. The moment he knew of my death, he came up to the room where I lay; it was late in the evening; he had plenty of time in front of him, for not a soul was watching by me; he brought with him my concubine Glycerium (an old affair, this, I suspect), closed the door, and proceeded to take his pleasure with her, as if no third person had been in the room! Having satisfied the demands of passion, he turned his attention to me. 'You little villain,' he cried, 'many's the flogging I've had from you, for no fault of mine!' And as he spoke he plucked out my hair and smote me on the face. 'Away with you,' he cried finally, spitting on me, 'away to the place of the damned!'—and so withdrew. I burned with resentment: but there I lay stark and cold, and could do nothing. That baggage Glycerium, too, hearing footsteps approaching, moistened her eyes and pretended she had been weeping for me; and withdrew sobbing, and repeating my name.—If I could but get hold of them— _Clo_. Never mind what you would do to them, but come on board. The hour is at hand when you must appear before the tribunal. _Me_. And who will presume to give his vote against a tyrant? _Clo_. Against a tyrant, who indeed? Against a Shade, Rhadamanthus will take that liberty. He is strictly impartial, as you will presently observe, in adapting his sentences to the requirements of individual cases. And now, no more delay. _Me_. Dread Fate, let me be some common man,—some pauper! I have been a king,—let me be a slave! Only let me live! _Clo_. Where is the one with the stick? Hermes, you and he must drag him up feet foremost. He will never come up by himself. _Her_. Come along, my runagate. Here you are, skipper. And I say, keep an eye— _Cha_. Never fear. We'll lash him to the mast. _Me_. Look you, I must have the seat of honour. _Clo_. And why exactly? _Me_. Can you ask? Was I not a tyrant, with a guard of ten thousand men? _Cy_. Oh, dullard! And you complain of Carion's pulling your hair! Wait till you get a taste of this stick; you shall know what it is to be a tyrant. _Me_. What, shall a Cynic dare to raise his staff against me? Sirrah, have you forgotten the other day, when I had all but nailed you to the cross, for letting that sharp censorious tongue of yours wag too freely? _Cynic_. Well, and now it is your turn to be nailed,—to the mast. _Mi_. And what of me, mistress? Am I to be left out of the reckoning? Because I am poor, must I be the last to come aboard? _Clo_. Who are you? _Mi_. Micyllus the cobbler. _Clo_. A cobbler, and cannot wait your turn? Look at the tyrant: see what bribes he offers us, only for a short reprieve. It is very strange that delay is not to your fancy too.