zle the Eyes of my Enemies, and
confound every man of 'em.---- In the mean time, I'll comfort my
bold _Bilbo_, that he might n't be dull and melancholly for want
of use this long time; for the poor Rogue is damnably eager to
slice all my Foes, and make a Hash of 'em.---- But where's
_Artotrogus_?

_Art._ Here, an't like your Honour, ready to wait upon a Man o'
the greatest Fortitude and Fortune i' th' Universe, and o' the
most majestick Air; then for personal Valour, Lord, _Mars_
himself dare n't pretend to measure Swords with you.

_Pyr._ You mean him in the spatious _Gurgustidonian_ Plains, the
mighty Generalissimo, _Bombomachides-- Cluninstaridy--
Sarchides_, great _Neptune_'s Grand-child?----

_Art._ ----The same, Sir. Him with the golden Armour, whose
whole Army you blew away with a single Puff, like Leaves before
the Wind, and Feathers in a Storm.

_Pyr._ By _Hercules_, 'twas nothing.

_Art._ No, faith, Sir, nothing at all to what I can relate,----
[_Aside_] but the Devil a bit of Truth's in't. If any Man can
shew me a greater Lyer, or a more bragging Coxcomb than this
Blunderbuss, he shall take me, make me his Slave, and starve me
with Whey and Butter-milk-- Well, Sir?

_Pyr._ Where are you?

_Art._ Here, Sir:---- Wonderful! how you broke the great
_Indian_ Elephants Arm with your single Fist?

_Pyr._ What Arm?

_Art._ I wou'd ha' said Thigh.

_Pyr._ Pshaw, I did that with ease.

_Art._ By _Jove_, Sir, had you us'd your full Strength, you'd
ha' flead, gutted, and bon'd the huge Beast at once.

_Pyr._ I wou'd not ha' ye relate all my Acts at this time.

_Art._ Really, Sir, 'tis impossible to innumerate all your noble
Acts that I have been Spectator of.---- [_Aside._] 'Tis this
Belly of mine creates me all this Plagues. My Ears must bear
this Burden, for fear my Teeth shou'd want Work; and to every
Lye he tells, I must swear to.

_Pyr._ What was I going to say?------

_Art._ O, Sir, I know your meaning.---- 'Twas a noble Exploit;
I remember't very well.

_Pyr._ What was't?

_Art._ Whatever you perform'd, was so.

_Pyr._ Ha' ye a Table-Book here?

_Art._ D'ye want one, Sir?---- Here's a Pencil too.

_Pyr._ Thou'st ingeniously accommodated thy Sentiments to mine.

_Art._ O, 'tis my Duty to adapt my Manners to your Nod, and
always keep 'em within the compass of your Commands.

_Pyr._ Well, how many can you remember?

_Art._ I remember a hundred and fifty _Cilicians_, a hundred
_Sycola