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''those below. He wears a tattered cloak, with a girdle of rope; his hair and beard are unkempt, his fingers stained with ink; in both hands, under his arms, and stuck in his belt, he holds bundles of parchment rolls and papers. He stops and listens to with every sign of exasperation.''

[Continuing.] It seems as though this wet-nurse of the world had become barren. We might almost think that she had passed the age when women

[Observing .] Fie, fie, Heraclius,—shame on you!

[Julian signs to the courtier to be silent.

[Continuing.] Well, enough of her. But is Ceres in the same case? Does she not display a most melancholy—I had almost said an imperial—parsimony? Yes, believe me, if we had a little more intercourse with high Olympus nowadays, we should hear much to the same tune. I dare swear that nectar and ambrosia are measured out as sparingly as possible. Oh Zeus, how gaunt must thou have grown! Oh roguish Dionysus, how much is there left of the fulness of thy loins? Oh wanton, quick-flushing Venus,—oh Mars, inauspicious to married men

[In great wrath.] Oh most shameless Heraclius! Oh scurvy, gall-spitting, venom-mouth