Eheu fugaces Postume, Postume, Labuntur anni, nec pietas moram Rugis et instanti senectæ Afferet, indomitæ que morti. Poetumus, Postumus, the years glide by us: Alas! no piety delays the wrinkles, Nor the indomitable hand of Death.
What's this that myrrh doth still smell in thy kiss, And that with thee no other odour is? 'Tis doubt, my Postumus, he that doth smell So sweetly always, smells not very well.
My suit has nothing to do with the assault, or battery, or poisoning, but is about three goats, which, I complain, have been stolen, by my neighbor This the judge desires to have proved to him, but you, with swelling words and extravagant gestures, dilate on the Battle of Cannæ, the Mithridatic war, and the perjuries of the insensate Carthaginians, the Syllæ, the Marii, and the Mucii It is time, Postumus, to say something about my three goats
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