METON. What d'you want with me?
PISTHETAERUS. I want to give you a proof of my friendship. Use your legs.
METON. Why, what have I to fear?
PISTHETAERUS. 'Tis the same here as in Sparta. Strangers are driven away,
and blows rain down as thick as hail.
METON. Is there sedition in your city?
PISTHETAERUS. No, certainly not.
METON. What's wrong then?
PISTHETAERUS. We are agreed to sweep all quacks and impostors far from
our borders.
METON. Then I'm off.
PISTHETAERUS. I fear me 'tis too late. The thunder growls already.
(_Beats him._)
METON. Oh, woe! oh, woe!
PISTHETAERUS. I warned you. Now, be off, and do your surveying somewhere
else. (_Meton takes to his heels._)