V
_Pluto. Hermes_
_Pl_. You know that old, old fellow, Eucrates the millionaire—no
children, but a few thousand would-be heirs?
_Her_. Yes—lives at Sicyon. Well?
_Pl_. Well, Hermes, he is ninety now; let him live as much longer,
please; I should like it to be more still, if possible; and bring me
down his toadies one by one, that young Charinus, Damon, and the rest
of them.
_Her_. It would seem so strange, wouldn't it?
_Pl_. On the contrary, it would be ideal justice. What business have
they to pray for his death, or pretend to his money? they are no
relations. The most abominable thing about it is that they vary these
prayers with every public attention; when he is ill, every one knows
what they are after, and yet they vow offerings if he recovers; talk of
versatility! So let him be immortal, and bring them away before him
with their mouths still open for the fruit that never drops.
_Her_. Well, they _are_ rascals, and it would be a comic ending. He
leads them a pretty life too, on hope gruel; he always looks more dead
than alive, but he is tougher than a young man. They have divided up
the inheritance among them, and feed on imaginary bliss.
_Pl_. Just so; now he is to throw off his years like Iolaus, and
rejuvenate, while they in the middle of their hopes find themselves
here with their dream-wealth left behind them. Nothing like making the
punishment fit the crime.
_Her_. Say no more, Pluto; I will fetch you them one after another;
seven of them, is it?
_Pl_. Down with them; and he shall change from an old man to a blooming
youth, and attend their funerals.