Dialogi mortuorum

Pluto You know that old, old fellow, Eucrates the millionaire— no children, but a few thousand would-be heirs?

Hermes Yes—lives at Sicyon. Well?

Pluto Well, Hermes, he is ninety now; let him live as much longer, please; I should like it to be more still, if possible; and bring me down his toadies one by one, that young Charinus, Damon, and the rest of them.

Hermes It would seem so strange, wouldn’t it?

Pluto On the contrary, it would be ideal justice. What business have they to pray for his death, or pretend to his money? they are no relations. The most abominable thing about it is that they vary these prayers with every public attention; when he is ill, every one knows what they are after, and yet they vow offerings if he recovers; talk of versatility! So let

Hermes Well, they are rascals, and it would be a comic ending. He leads them a pretty life too, on hope gruel; he always looks more dead than alive, but he is tougher than a young man. They have divided up the inheritance among them, and feed on imaginary bliss.

Pluto Just so; now he is to throw off his years like Iolaus, and rejuvenate, while they in the middle of their hopes find themselves here with their dream-wealth left behind them. Nothing like making the punishment fit the crime.

Hermes Say no more, Pluto; I will fetch you them one after another; seven of them, is it?

Pluto Down with them; and he shall change from an old man to a blooming youth, and attend their funerals.