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At meal times, with a monstrous leathern fly-flap,

Slapping and whisking it round, and rapping us off.

Sometimes the old man falls into moods and fancies,

Searching the prophecies till he gets bewildered,

And then the Paphlagonian plies him up,

Driving him mad with oracles and predictions.

And that's his harvest. Then he slanders us,

And gets us beaten and lashed, and goes his rounds

Bullying in this way, to squeeze presents from us:

'You saw what a lashing Hylas got just now;

You'd best make friends with me, if you love your lives.'

Why then, we give him a trifle, or, if we don't,

We pay for it; for the old fellow knocks us down,

And kicks us on the ground."—(F.)

But, after all, what shall they do?—"Die at once," says the despondent Nicias—"drink bull's blood, like Themistocles.""Drink a cup of good wine, rather," says his jovial comrade. And he sends Nicias to purloin some, while their hated taskmaster is asleep. Warming his wits under its influence, Demosthenes is inspired with new counsels. The oracles which this Paphlagonian keeps by him, and by means of which he strengthens his influence over their master, must be got hold of. And Nicias—the weaker spirit—is again sent by his comrade upon the perilous service of stealing them from their owner's possession while he is still snoring. He succeeds in his errand, and Demosthenes