Lamp. There, then—I'm stripped entirely.
Merc. Very well—get in.—And you fat fellow, who are you, with all that flesh on you?
Damasias. Damasias, the athlete.
Merc. Ay, you look like him: I remember having seen you in the games.
Dam. (smiling). Yes, Mercury; take me on board—I'm ready stripped, at any rate.
Merc. Stripped? Nay, my good sir, not with all that covering of flesh on you. You must get rid of that, or you'll sink the boat the moment you set your other foot in. And you must take off your garlands and trophies too.
Dam. Then—now I'm really stripped, and not heavier than these other dead gentlemen.
Merc. All right—the lighter the better: get in.
[In like manner the patrician has to lay aside his noble birth, his public honours, and statues, and testimonials—the very thought of them, Mercury declares, is enough to sink the boat; and the general is made to leave behind him all his victories and trophies—in the realms of the dead there is peace. Next comes the philosopher's turn.]
Merc. Who's this pompous and conceited personage, to judge from his looks—he with the knitted eyebrows there, and lost in meditation—that fellow with the long beard?
Men. One of those philosophers, Mercury—or rather those cheats and charlatans: make him strip too; you'll find some curious things hid under that cloak of his.
