Forbear; spare me; I appeal to the God of suppliants.

Too late; no loophole is left you now. And you know your Homer: 'Twixt men and lions, covenants are null.

Why, it is in Homer’s name that I ask my boon. You will perhaps pay reverence to his lines, and listen to a selection from him: Slay not; no churl is he; a ransom take Of bronze and gold, whereof wise hearts are fain.

Why, two can play at that game; exempli gratia, Reviler, babble not of gold, nor nurse Hope of escape from these our hands that hold thee.

Ah me, ah me! my best hopes dashed, with Homer! Let me fly to Euripides; it may be he will protect me: Leave him his life; the suppliant’s life is sacred.

Does this happen to be Euripides too— Evil men evil treated is no evil?

And will you slay me now for nought but words?

Most certainly; our author has something on that point too: Unbridled lips And folly’s slips Invite Fate’s whips.

Oh, very well; as you are all set on murdering me, and escape is impossible, do at least tell me who you are, and what harm I have done you; it must be something irreparable, to judge by your relentless murderous pursuit.

What harm you have done us, vile fellow? your own conscience and your fine dialogues will tell you; you have called Philosophy herself bad names, and as for us, you have subjected us to the indignity of a public auction, and put up wise men— ay, and free men, which is more—for sale. We have reason to be angry; we have got a short leave of absence from Hades, and come up against you—Chrysippus here, Epicurus and myself, Aristotle yonder, the taciturn Pythagoras, Diogenes and all of us that your dialogues have made so free with.