Dic. Say, would you wish to grapple,
In single combat, with this mailed monster?
[Showing a lobster.
Lam. Alas, that dismal fatal messenger!
Dic. But here's a message too, coming for me.
2nd Mess. Ho, Dicæopolis!
Dic. Well, what?
2nd Mess. You're summoned
To go without a moment's loss of time,
With your whole cookery, to the priest of Bacchus.
The company are arrived; you keep them waiting,
Everything else is ready—couches, tables, 1430
Cushions, and coverlids for mattresses,
Dancing and singing girls for mistresses,
Plum cake and plain, comfits and caraways,
Confectionery, fruits preserved and fresh,
Relishes of all sorts, hot things and bitter,
Savouries and sweets, broiled biscuits, and what not;
Flowers and perfumes and garlands, everything.
You must not lose a moment.
Lam. Out alas!
Wretch that I am!
Dic. 'Tis your own fault entirely,
For enlisting in the service of the Gorgons. 1440
There, shut the door, and serve the dishes here.
Lam. My knapsack and camp service; bring it out.
Dic. My dinner service; bring it here, you lout.
Lam. Give me my bunch of leeks, the soldiers' fare.
Dic. I'm partial to veal cutlets; bring them there.
Lam. Let's see the salt fish; it seems like to rot.
Dic. I take fresh fish, and broil it on the spot.
Lam. Bring me the lofty feathers of my crest.
Dic. Bring doves and quails; I scarce know which is best.
Lam. Behold this snowy plume of dazzling white. 1450
Dic. Behold the roasted dove, a savoury sight.
Lam. Don't mock these arms of mine, good fellow, pri'thee.
Dic. These quails of mine, don't think to take them with ye.
Lam. The case that holds my crest—bring it in haste.
Dic. And the hare-pie for me—bring it in paste.
Lam. My crest—have the moths spoilt it? no, not yet.
Dic. My dinner—shall I spoil it by a whet.
