"Yes, if you had beaten me yourself with a stick, you would say a dry branch of a fig or olive tree had accidentally fallen on my back.

I know you well enough, and Leonax, Alciphron's son, not your sleepy Phaon, whom people say is roaming about when he ought to be resting quietly in the house, shall have our girl for his wife.

It's not I who say so, but Lysander, my lord and master." "Your will is his," replied Jason.

"Far be it from me to wound the sick man with words, but ever since he has been ill you've played the master, and he ought to be called the house-keeper.

Ay, you have more influence under his roof than any one else, but Aphrodite and Eros are a thousand times more powerful, for you rule by pans, spits, and soft pillows--they govern hearts with divine, irresistible omnipotence." Semestre laughed scornfully, and, striking the hard stone floor with her myrtle-staff, exclaimed: "My spit is enough, and perhaps Eros is helping it with his arrows, for Xanthe no longer asks for your Phaon, any more than I fretted for a person now standing before me when he was young.