The aunt slips in a word of pious precept.
The grandsire last—a bass voice among trebles,
Thunder succeeding whispers, fires away.
Each pause between, his aged partner fills
With "lack-a-day!" "good sooth!" and "dearest dear!"
The dotard's head meantime for ever nods,
Encouraging her drivelling.—Anon.
Aristophanes. (Book iii. § 7, p. 126.)
There is no kind of fig,
Whether little or big,
Save the Spartan, which here does not grow;
But this, though quite small,
Swells with hatred and gall,
A stern foe to the Demos, I trow.—J. A. St. John.
Stesichorus. (Book iii. § 21, p. 136.)
Many a yellow quince was there
Piled upon the regal chair,
Many a verdant myrtle-bough,
Many a rose-crown featly wreathed,
With twisted violets that grow
Where the breath of spring has breathed.
J. A. St. John.
Antigonus. (Book iii. § 22, p. 137.)
O where is the maiden, sweeter far
Than the ruddy fruits of Ephyrè are,
When the winds of summer have o'er them blown,
And their cheeks with autumn's gold have been strown!
J. A. St. John.
Antiphanes. (Book iii. § 27, p. 140.)
A. 'Twould be absurd to speak of what's to eat,
As if you thought of such things; but, fair maid,
Take of these apples.
B. Oh, how beautiful!
