Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Before, he used to go about in an old cap, a hood tied tightly,
with wooden knucklebones in his ears, and around his ribs
the hairless hide of an ox,
the unwashed covering of a worthless shield, consorting
with bread-women and willing whores, that scoundrel Artemon,
contriving a fraudulent livelihood;
often he had his neck in the stocks, often on the wheel;
often his back was scourged with a leather whip, his hair and beard plucked out.
But now he rides in a carriage wearing golden earrings, that son of Kyke, and he carries an ivory parasol just the way the ladies do.
If I was a master thief, perhaps I'd rob these guys.