ed with me
always!"

CHAPTER THE SEVENTY-SEVENTH.

"Habinnas, you were there, I think, I'll leave it to you; didn't he say
--'You took your wife out of a whore-house'? you're as lucky in your
friends, too, no one ever repays your favor with another, you own broad
estates, you nourish a viper under your wing, and--why shouldn't I tell
it--I still have thirty years, four months, and two days to live! I'll
also come into another bequest shortly. That's what my horoscope tells
me. If I can extend my boundaries so as to join Apulia, I'll think I've
amounted to something in this life! I built this house with Mercury on
the job, anyhow; it was a hovel, as you know, it's a palace now! Four
dining-rooms, twenty bed-rooms, two marble colonnades, a store-room
upstairs, a bed-room where I sleep myself, a sitting-room for this viper,
a very good room for the porter, a guest-chamber for visitors. As a
matter of fact, Scaurus, when he was here, would stay nowhere else,
although he has a family place on the seashore. I'll show you many other
things, too, in a jiffy; believe me, if you have an as, you'll be rated
at what you have. So your humble servant, who was a frog, is now a king.
Stychus, bring out my funereal vestments while we wait, the ones I'll be
carried out in, some perfume, too, and a draught of the wine in that jar,
I mean the kind I intend to have my bones washed in."

CHAPTER THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH.

It was not long before Stychus brought a white shroud and a
purple-bordered toga into the dining-room, and Trimalchio requested us
to feel them and see if they were pure wool. Then, with a smile, "Take
care, Stychus, that the mice don't get at these things and gnaw them, or
the moths either. I'll burn you alive if they do. I want to be carried
out in all my glory so all the people will wish me well." Then, opening
a jar of nard, he had us all anointed. "I hope I'll enjoy this as well
when I'm dead," he remarked, "as I do while I'm alive." He then ordered
wine to be poured into the punch-bowl. "Pretend," said he, "that you're
invited to my funeral feast." The thing had grown positively
nauseating, when Trimalchio, beastly drunk by now, bethought himself of
a new and singular diversion and ordered some horn-blowers brought into
the dining-room. Then, propped up by many cushions, he stretched
himself out upon the couch. "Let on that I'm dead," said he, "and say
something nice about me." The horn-blow