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 the first book of his Silli. But Polemo, in the twelfth book of his Argument against Timæus, speaking of the men who have written parodies, writes thus—"And I should call Bœotus and Eubœus, who wrote parodies, men of great reputation, on account of their cleverness in sportive composition, and I consider that they surpass those ancient poets whose followers they were. Now, the invention of this kind of poetry we must attribute to Hipponax the Iambic poet. For he writes thus, in his Hexameters,—

Muse, sing me now the praises of Eurymedon, That great Charybdis of the sea, who holds A sword within his stomach, never weary With eating. Tell me how the votes may pass Condemning him to death, by public judgment, On the loud-sounding shore of the barren sea.

Epicharmus of Syracuse also uses the same kind of poetry, in a small degree, in some of his plays; and so does Cratinus, a poet of the old Comedy, in his Eunidæ, and so also does his contemporary, Hegemon of Thasos, whom they used to call Lentil. For he writes thus—

And when I Thasos reach'd they took up filth, And pelted me therewith, by which aroused Thus a bystander spoke with pitiless heart:— O most accursed of men, who e'er advised you To put such dirty feet in such fine slippers? And quickly I did this brief answer make:— 'Twas gain that moved me, though against my will, (But I am old;) and bitter penury; Which many Thasians also drives on shipboard, Ill-manner'd youths, and long-ruin'd old men: Who now sing worthless songs about the place. Those men I join'd when fit for nothing else; But I will not depart again for gain, But doing nothing wrong, I'll here deposit My lovely money among the Thasians: Lest any of the Grecian dames at home Should be enraged when they behold my wife Making Greek bread, a poor and scanty meal. Or if they see a cheesecake small, should say,— "Philion, who sang the 'Fierce Attack' at Athens, Got fifty drachmas, and yet this is all That you sent home."—While I was thinking thus, And in my mind revolving all these things, Pallas Minerva at my side appear'd, And touch'd me with her golden sceptre, saying, "O miserable and ill-treated man, Poor Lentil, haste thee to the sacred games." Then I took heart, and sang a louder strain.